Collapse
by BackToTheStart
Summary: A secondary collapse occurs at the crane accident site, and there are repercussions for everyone.
1. Prologue

**Prologue  
><strong>Alone

_Till now, I always got by on my own_

* * *

><p>Gregory House lies in the dark.<p>

Somewhere above him there is a commotion – whirring, clanging, grinding, hammering, knocking. Yells of instructions. Shouts of reassurance. Rescue workers working desperately to clear tons of rubble to save a doctor who was only trying save _his_ patient's life.

"_Dr House, are you there?" _

"_Hang on, Dr House, we're gonna get you out. Just hang on." _

He doesn't respond to them. Whether because it's physically impossible, or because he doesn't want to, he doesn't know.

He can feel his right thigh screaming at him, protesting at his climbing in and out of rubble for hours consecutively. It twists and spasms relentlessly, the pain so overwhelming he wants to throw up. He wants to curl up into that fetal position he has come to know so well, so that he can fight against the pain. But he can't move. He grips the metal pipe right next to his right hand so tightly he can feel it cut into the skin of his palm.

He can hear his harsh breaths as he fights to inflate his lungs with a slab of concrete on top of him. He can feel the pounding of his heart, the adrenaline racing through his veins. He can smell the coppery tang of blood. He can feel that very blood oozing out of his wounds, starting to soak his shirt. He can taste the dust that hovers in the air. He can't see a thing. Not even the rubble that is just inches away from his face.

He should be praying to a god out there that air is not going to run out, that Hanna made it, that he's not going to die in this concrete coffin.

But all he really hears are her words.

_What are you clinging to, House? You're gonna risk her life just to save her leg? Really worked out well for you, didn't it? What do you have in your life, honestly? Tell me. I'm moving on. Wilson is moving on. And you...You've got nothing, House. Nothing. _

They play over and over in his head as he stares into the pitch darkness. They drown out everything. He can actually see her face. The furious set of her mouth, the eyes glittering with anger and frustration. He can actually replay that moment over and over again.

Now his body is telling him _there is too much pain, it's time to escape_. He thinks he can actually feel it begin to shut down. The irony is that because he is in pitch darkness, he doesn't even know when he is actually starting to black out.

But the words are still running through his mind, so he must still be conscious.

He allows a tear to run down his face.

It isn't because he's afraid of dying. Maybe it's because he's in pain. Yes, it's because he's in pain.

Because he's in pain all the time.

No one knows how he wakes up each morning gritting his teeth. It takes him ten minutes to soothe the muscle, get off the bed and onto his feet. Sometimes, twenty, if the attempt to place weight on his right leg ends up with him falling back on the bed.

No one knows how hard he fights to not reach for Vicodin.

No one acknowledges the fact that he's managed to stay clean for one whole year.

He thinks about how good it would be to escape from it all. Because he's been trying so damn hard. He's always been a lone warrior, but some battles are just too hard to fight alone.

His eyelids start to close, and another kind of darkness begins to envelope him. It's comforting. It's warm, and it doesn't hurt. He can feel his limbs begin to go numb. His thigh spasms, then throbs, and then the pain starts to fade. And then it doesn't hurt anymore. He almost smiles at the relief he feels.

_"Dr House? You still there? You're gonna be alright. We'll get you out in no time."_

_"House! Can you hear me? Please, stay awake. Just... please, hang on." _

Her voice drifts down, and pierces through the fog that he is giving in to. He blinks and forces his eyes open, and strains to hear her voice again. But it sounds like she's getting further and further away from him.

He's so_ tired_.

He closes his eyes.

The last thought he has is how the two people he trusted and loved have turned their backs on him.

How he really is alone.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1  
><strong>Make It Without You

_This is the starting of my fall from grace__  
><em>_My self esteem, it's seen better days_

_- _Make It Without You, Andrew Belle

* * *

><p><strong>Thanksgiving<strong>

House gets out of the car, ignoring the flare of pain that naturally comes with a three hour car ride with no breaks in between to stretch the leg. His pain is bad, the limp a little heavier. He pops some ibuprofen into his mouth.

He actually brought with him a bottle of wine – the good quality kind. He doesn't know what to expect – the relationship between him and Cuddy for the past few months hasn't been the best. But hey, this is a good start.

He walks up the driveway and knocks on the door. It swings open, and the first thing that he notices is that the house is _dark_.

The house-sitter stands in front of him, and offers him a cold turkey sandwich.

He's surprised how crushed he feels when he realises that she played such a trick on him. Wilson actually pointed out to him the possibility that it might be a ruse, and he blew it off because he trusts her. This is probably the cruelest thing Lisa Cuddy has ever done to him. It doesn't seem like her at all.

He's trying to change. But she doesn't seem to want to acknowledge that at all.

He turns back and heads back to the car. His TiVo will be his companion for Thanksgiving then.

This time, on the three-_fucking_-hour journey home, he's going to make sure he takes regular breaks for his leg.

* * *

><p>She stands in front of his door and says, "I've had enough, House. I actually felt bad about scamming you. But then you lived down to my expectations... And then some. There is no us. There never will be."<p>

He doesn't say anything to her. His head is bowed as he shuts the door slowly.

He feels disillusioned and stunned at what just happened. Wasn't she there after he woke from his coma from the deep brain stimulation? Hasn't she been there for him for the past ten years? What about the kiss when the adoption fell through?

_There is no us. _

The rustling in the bathroom reminds him that Wilson is in the house. He immediately shoves his feelings away. He barges into the bathroom, and keeps up with his appearances, telling Wilson he has succeeded when really, he just feels hurt by her words.

* * *

><p>"Can we at least be civil?" He asks her.<p>

He's tired of having her tip toe around him, and him around her. He offers her the tickets to the holiday carnival, that he actually did buy from a nurse. The nurse had given him a weird look, but he still bought them anyway.

It's a peace offering from him. That's a first in their long-standing relationship.

She looks guilt-stricken, but she still rejects the tickets anyway.

This is when he really knows for sure: Lisa Cuddy is slipping away from him.

* * *

><p><strong>6 days before<strong>

He sits in his apartment, alone. His box of belongings are right next to him on the couch. All his stuff has finally been removed from the loft. Wilson's loft. There is no sign that he's lived there for the past year.

Wilson dropped him off earlier, an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry, House. But Sam's moving in and you know..." Wilson's voice trails off, and he gestures awkwardly in the air. He doesn't voice it, but House knows exactly what Wilson means. _It would be awkward with you around here. Since you hate her. _

So he's officially been kicked out of Wilson's loft. Wilson's ex-wife has displaced him. Wilson was married to her for two years, has dated her for a few months, and now has kicked out his recovering drug addict of a best friend - _twenty years of friendship no less_ -, so that she can move in. How convenient it is to just get rid of House.

So much for staying with Wilson so that he has someone to support him and make sure he won't relapse.

Now he's back where his demons reside. Where he lived out his dream, his delusion, his fantasy.

"_You want to kiss me, don't you?" _

_"I always want to kiss you." _

Or really, his greatest nightmare, as it was when it all came tumbling down.

The Vicodin's been all cleared out, he tries to convince himself. There are two bottles hidden behind his mirror, but he chooses to leave them there, ignoring the fact that he really should throw them out. But he won't be able to get at them anyway. And nothing will drive him to relapse. What he went through before and during Mayfield is more than enough to deter him.

_Or maybe they're his backup plan. _

He limps to his cabinet, and takes out the scotch. He's tried to stay off the alcohol, but what with all that has happened lately… He needs some comfort.

He pours the amber liquid into his glass, and sloshes it around. It's one of his better ones, kept for a special occasion. He imagines it going down his throat – that familiar heat and burn as it travels down to his stomach.

He raises the glass to his mouth, and sips it. Turns out it's better than he thought it would be. Turns out he can rely on the alcohol more than he can rely on his friends.

* * *

><p><strong>4 days before<strong>

"House."

House doesn't look up. "What."

He's sitting on the chair, forehead on his cane as he ponders over his latest case. The symptoms are scrawled on the board, and they seem to make no sense. There seems to be no answer to this puzzle. And the patient is dying. He grips the cane so hard his arms tremble with the effort.

Wilson's expensive loafers appear in front of his eyes as Wilson comes to stand in front of him. He looks up. Oh, _that_ guilty look. Immediately, House knows that Wilson is going to cancel on him.

"Look, Sam just told me that her friend is in town, and she would like to have dinner with us. I know we've planned this for months, but I really have to - "

House tries to mask his hurt behind his rolling eyes. He cuts Wilson off abruptly. "That harpy is ruining your life."

Wilson doesn't even apologise further. In fact, he heaves a sigh of relief that House isn't making things difficult for him. "I'll make it up to you some other time." He doesn't notice the hurt look in House's eyes that House hasn't managed to hide at all.

House nods curtly, and pointedly stares back at the whiteboard. He pries his hands off the cane, and begins rubbing his damaged thigh slowly and gently. The rain is not doing any favors to his leg.

Wilson doesn't notice the pain, and how tense House really is. He's forgotten how House is _always_ in pain, simply because House doesn't complain about it anymore. Wilson is just happy that House no longer asks for Vicodin, even though there technically should be more pain without the narcotics.

Wilson knows that House's silence is his cue to leave, and he begins to do so. But as he reaches the conference room door, he hesitates and turns back.

"Just checking… everything okay back at your apartment? You know you can always come back, or at least talk to me if there's anything." _Typical of Wilson to try and make things right. _

He doesn't mention the pain he's in, or how terrified he is that he will reach for the Vicodin. It's getting harder now, especially with the recent bad weather.

"Everything's fine."

As Wilson leaves and the room is quiet again, the words he said to Nolan with utter conviction during his session just the day before come back to him.

_"Wilson is not a consolation prize."_

Now, he's starting to realise that perhaps _he_ is the consolation prize.

* * *

><p><strong>2 hours before<strong>

Lisa Cuddy is on her hands and knees, stooped over The space is so tight, she cannot believe that House has been climbing in and out of this voluntarily for hours.

She listens as House speaks to Hanna. His voice is soft and low, but she can hear every single word in the enclosed space they are huddled in.

"_I wish I hadn't. They cut out a chunk of muscle about the size of my fist, and they left me with this mutilated, useless thing. I'm in pain... every day. It changed me. Made me a harder person. A worse person. And now... now I'm alone. You don't want to be like me. You've got a husband who loves you. You have friends. You can start a family. You have a life. And this… This is just a leg." _

This is a totally different side to him. One that she has ignored over the past year. He is _connecting_ with his patient. He's baring his soul to someone else. There is no sarcasm, no impatience, no clinical detachment. His voice is gentle and earnest, and he _looks_ into Hanna's eyes, asking her to trust him.

It is this moment that she realizes that he really has changed.

Guilt and realization rise up in her as she thinks of her actions of the past year. The words that she shouted at him earlier come to her mind. She can't remember the exact words she yelled. That's just the way it is. Words you spit out in anger and frustration are rarely remembered. But the look in his eyes after she yelled those hurtful words – it's stark clear in her mind and a chill travels down her spine at how lost he looked. How hurt he looked.

But something in those words of hers must have pierced House's resolve. That's why he's finally backed down, and is finally willing to do for Hanna what he should have done hours ago. And for that, she's glad.

She looks at House. They exchange glances. His blue eyes hide a storm of emotions and feelings that she can't figure out at all. She tries to tell him that she's glad he has finally come around. She opens his mouth, but he murmurs "_I've got it"_ as he tears his gaze away from hers.

She climbs back out into the open. She doesn't realize how much her words really did cut through him.

* * *

><p><strong>1.5 hours before<strong>

She stands outside in the open air, surrounded by what _used_ to be a building. She can hear the small saw that House has started. She knows the entire process far too well, and can imagine it.

As she waits, her thoughts whirl in her mind. There is a gnawing guilt in her. House seems to have really changed. And the whole year, she's been avoiding him, rejecting the idea that he can change, and has changed. They used to be friends, maybe even something more. But now, they're just colleagues. And it was her fault because _she_ pushed _him_ away. She's together with Lucas, but did that mean she had to push House away? She realizes that she's never really given him a chance to prove himself since he got out of Mayfield.

This tender, more emotional side of House that she caught a glimpse of down there… That's the man she fell in love with years ago. She has simply forgotten that he is down there, buried behind the cutting exterior he has put on to protect himself. It's the appearance of bravado and unfeelingness, and it is just a front that he puts up to deal with his pain.

Somewhere in there is still that man who _feels_. Who perhaps feels so much more than others do.

The confession to Hanna came from the deepest recesses of his heart, she's sure of it. She hates that it requires a situation as dire as this for him to express how he really feels. She hates that she needed to give him a good dressing down to wake him up, to get him to do the right thing. She hates that the feelings she has tried to suppress for the past two years are rising up in her, threatening to overwhelm her now that she's been reminded of his ability to _care_. That he's not just an immature and insensitive guy wrecking havoc in her hospital daily. That maybe, she _loves_ him even though he's screwed up and it seems impossible for them to be together. For the past year, she's battled the feeling that she doesn't feel as much for Lucas as she does for -

Hanna's scream of agony pierces the air and interrupts her thoughts. It's pain at its very worst, and they cannot imagine what Hanna is going through right now. She's conscious. The mild anesthetic is not enough. She can _feel_ it as bit by bit, her leg is removed.

A silence weighs heavily in the air as everyone listens to the tormented screams and cries of the young woman trapped in the rubble. They can barely hear it, but House's voice drifts up through the cracks as well. He's reassuring her, telling her that it's going to be over soon.

* * *

><p>House pushes his own feelings down and away as he tries to be the doctor. He knows that Hanna has become more than just his patient. He performs the amputation clinically, as professionally as he can. He hasn't done one in years, but he knows what to do. He knows the risks of a field amputation. Fat embolism. Clot. Infection.<p>

She has a fighting chance at living a good life. A _happy_ life. With a husband who loves her and will no doubt love her even more after she survives this.

He has helped her make the choice he couldn't bring himself to make.

Is this the choice he should have made so many years ago? Would he still be with Stacy, happy? He probably never would have gone to Mayfield, never would have killed Amber, never would have been shot. So many possibilities. Would he be stuck in this rut that he's gotten his life into, or would he be happy?

Cuddy and Lucas are getting married. Wilson's happy with Sam. It's just him left, alone. He knows he's pushed people away far too many times. Now, when he's actually trying to change and to do good, even going to therapy, it's too late. The fact that he's gone to therapy for one whole _fucking_ year is the most obvious sign that he's trying to change. It's funny how Wilson and Cuddy and everyone else can't see that.

House cannot believe that he has believed and trusted Nolan for one whole year. That things will get better, that _he_ is better person, that he will find the answer to being happy. Because if he truly could be happy, he wouldn't be where he is right now, with the woman he loves shunning him over the past year and going to marry another man, and his own best friend choosing his ex-wife over him.

He reassures Hanna, telling her it's going to be over soon. That she's so brave. That it won't hurt anymore very soon.

_That she's everything he's not. _

It's over. It's a clean job. Hanna's screams have died down, she's sobbing and whimpering. He dresses and wraps the stump up the best he can.

She looks at him with an expression of pain, and of gratitude. Her eyes shine with tears that spill over, but she's looking at him with implicit trust and gratitude, because she knows that he helped her make the right choice. It was the difficult path to travel, but the necessary one.

He and Hanna were on the same side when she was fighting to keep her leg. They were kindred spirits, both understanding the value of a leg. She understood why he chose to keep his. No one else does. Not Wilson. Not Cuddy.

But now she has so much more to look forward to out there in the world. She's alive. Happy. There will be pain, but it will fade away over time.

Now, he's alone again. He tried so hard to move on. To chase the woman of his dreams, to live a fulfilling and happy life. Now, he's stuck with his fucking leg while everyone else is moving on.

Desolation and despair overwhelm him despite the fact that he has saved his patient. But he ignores them.

He'll be okay. He's always been okay on his own.

He reaches over, and takes her hand. He doesn't dare admit it, but at this point of his life, he needs the human touch as much as she does. She squeezes his hand, hard.

"Thank you," she whispers.

His voice wavers. "You did good."

He pauses, and then says the words that twist in his gut and are practically killing him. It's an admission, and a reassurance. Both for himself, and for her.

"You did the right thing."

* * *

><p><strong>1 hour before<strong>

Lisa Cuddy watches as the rescue workers lift Hanna out of the rubble. She's strapped to the stretcher board. What used to be her leg is now a stump. But she's smiling, and just glad that she's out alive. She mouths _thank you_ to the rescue workers who carry her out, and they all pat her shoulder and squeeze her hand and whisper reassurances to her. _You did great._ _You're so brave. You're safe now._

Cuddy does the same. She walks over to Hanna and smiles reassuringly. "You're out now. Everything's going to be okay."

She beckons to Hanna's husband, and waves him over. He rushes up to Hanna, and plants a tender kiss on her forehead. He's just so glad that she's safe and alive. He doesn't care about how she doesn't have a leg now. She's alive, and that's all that matters.

Cuddy witnesses this, and smiles. It's always heartwarming to see moments like these.

Cuddy walks alongside the stretcher as Hanna is transported to the ambulance. House isn't out yet. She'll come back later to check on his wound.

They're almost at the ambulance when the ground seems to rumbles beneath her feet. Panicked shouts ring through the air as rescue workers scramble off the ruins they were scouring and onto solid ground.

She looks back. She sees the unstable ruins of the building shifting. A shiver runs up her spine as she realizes that she was _there_ just an hour ago. Under tonnes of rubble.

Then there is a cacophony of sound, a loud crash, and she can hear glass breaking, metal pipes clanging as the precarious stack of bricks and concrete collapses. It cuts off the small hole that is the path leading to where Hanna was trapped, that House had been climbing in and out of to get to his patient. The ground beneath her feet shakes, and she can almost feel every slab of concrete that falls, every piece of debris hits the ground as it vibrates beneath her feet.

A fine plume of dust rises into the air, and the everything is still once again as the rubble settles.

One by one, the men start shouting instructions again, checking for casualties and injuries. They're used to secondary collapses – it's part and parcel of their job.

Cuddy stops in her tracks. She scans the sparse crowd of men desperately for a familiar figure. She begins walking back towards them, walking, jogging, then starting to run. Surely, he made it out before the secondary collapse. But she doesn't see him.

As she runs towards the site with a rising panic and uneasiness in her gut, the last words she said to him suddenly crystallize into a painfully clear memory, and she can recall every single word. Oh god, how brutal they were, how cruel she was. Her feet pound against the ground as she runs back towards him. She hopes desperately that he's made it out; because those can't be the last words she ever says to him. She needs to make things right, tell him that she finally knows he's trying his best to change and that she's sorry. Sorry for her words and for the past year. For not giving him a chance to prove himself at all.

The shouts of the men suddenly increase in volume. There is panic in their voices, and renewed urgency in their movements.

"_Fuck! He didn't make it out in time!" _

"_Call for reinforcements, we'll need to clear a new path down!" _

"_Dr House, are you down there? Come on, can you hear me? Give us a sign you're there." _

She stands stock still in the middle of the ruins. Lights are flashing, sirens are blaring, but all she hears is her heart thudding painfully in her chest.

He didn't make it out after all.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2  
><strong>So pray for me, child, just for a while

_Have I still got you to be my open door  
>Have I still got you to be my sandy shore<em>  
><em>Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm<em>  
><em>Have I still got you to keep me warm<em>

- Grey Room, Damien Rice

* * *

><p>Wilson has just finished stitching up a little girl with a nasty gash on her forehead when he is asked to go receive an incoming patient who has undergone a field amputation.<p>

The ambulance peals up the driveway, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Wilson is one of the first to get there. He yanks the door open, and prepares himself for the flurry of activity that will ensue.

Instead, the paramedic is slumped in his seat, while a man, presumably a loved one, dazedly pats the hands of the patient. The monotonous tone of the flatline is a death knell, and it is deafening in the small, enclosed space. The flurry of activity outside the ambulance ceases as the doctors and nurses all realize that there is no patient to receive and no patient to save. Heads bow momentarily as they recognize another life lost in the tragic accident; but the medical personnel soon disperse, as there are more cases to attend to.

Wilson slowly climbs into the ambulance, and sits down next to the grieving man. He notices that the patient's eyes are still open, and he reaches over to gently close the lids. She looks almost peaceful now.

The man, probably her husband, starts to sob, and Wilson can only sit there next to the man, offering some semblance of solidarity and comfort.

"There was nothing we could have done for a fat embolism," he says. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

Being an oncologist, he is an expert at comforting people. But as always, to those who are left lost in the world of the living as their loved ones slip into another realm, his words are just hollow words that don't offer any real comfort at all. Especially since this man witnessed his wife being pulled away from the brink of death, only to die slowly in front of him from a complication no one, not even the best of doctors, could have forestalled.

He helps the man out of the ambulance, and entrusts him to a nurse, who leads him away. The man's shoulders are hunched and shaking. He walks away unsteadily.

Wilson wonders why the doctor who performed the field amputation didn't follow along in the ambulance. But before he can really think about it, his phone rings.

He is in his car in less than three minutes, and he speeds off towards the accident site. He parks the car haphazardly by the sidewalk, and sprints the remaining three hundred yards.

He can see the crowd of rescue workers gathering at a certain spot. Sounds of drilling and heavy machinery assault his ears, and he can see the urgency in their frantic movements.

Cuddy is seated on a concrete block a distance away, her head buried in her hands.

Wilson comes to a halt before her, panting. "Wha-what happened?" All he knows is that House has been caught in a secondary collapse. His heart is thudding painfully. All sorts of worst-case scenarios run through his head.

As Cuddy spills the story of Hanna with a trembling voice, Wilson feels his knees go weak, and he sits down heavily on the concrete block next to Cuddy.

Because the significance of it all has not eluded him. He knows for sure that House has connected with Hanna, so much so that he was willing to say those words to persuade her to cut off the leg.

And then Wilson realizes who the patient in the ambulance was, and his heart quite literally, stops.

"I… I saw her," he whispers, "I saw her, Cuddy… She had a fat embolism en route… She's dead…"

There is a stunned silence between the two friends.

Cuddy kept the details of what prompted House to say those words to Hanna, not wanting Wilson to know how absolutely awful she had been; but now that she's heard that Hanna's dead, she cannot help but blurt it out.

"Oh Wilson… I was… I was awful. _Oh God_. He refused to amputate the leg, and I said such horrifying things to him… I told him that he had _nothing_. That you were moving on, that I was moving on, and that he had _nothing_ left for him… And I… I told him that keeping his leg had _ruined_ his life… I _yelled _at him, Wilson…"

Verbalising the words again, Cuddy cannot believe that they had found their way out of her mouth.

"- I was _horrible_… And he couldn't say anything back to me, like he was stunned… And now… those are the last words he heard from anyone before… before…" and she gestures to the rubble briefly before she covers her mouth in horror, tears running down her cheeks.

Her whole body is shaking from her confession, because hearing those words come out of her mouth again, hearing herself talk about it, has only reiterated the fact that her words were cruel and out of the line.

Wilson listens with a horrified expression. He shrinks away from her, as if he cannot quite believe what she's saying, and whom she had turned into at that moment.

He springs to his feet. His whole body is trembling from adrenaline and fear, as well as unadulterated anger.

"You… You had _no right_ to say that! You had _no right_ to say that I was moving on. Because he still has me. He may have lost you to Lucas, Cuddy, but _he still has me_. You had no right to tell him that he had lost me, and that I'm moving on! _You_ were the one who moved on. - "

All of Wilson's frustrations at seeing his two friends tip toe around each other spill out. But mostly, it's anger at how Cuddy has treated House for the past year.

"- You _knew_ he had feelings for you. And then you went and got together with his friend! _Lucas was his friend_. And you didn't even give him a chance to prove himself! Worst of all, he had to find out for himself when he went to your room during the conference to offer to babysit Rachel. When he was actually taking active steps to be a better man! _God_. I can't believe this… One whole year I've actually watched him try and try again, only for you to… to… And now you've…" Wilson splutters, because he really doesn't know what to say anymore.

He expects Cuddy to cry even harder, to say _I'm so sorry_, but instead, she raises her head and looks at him.

"But you were moving on too, Wilson," she says in a low voice, "You got together with Sam. You kicked him out because she was moving in. You left him to his own devices barely a year after he got out of Mayfield. Did you even notice that he's started drinking again?"

For Cuddy had quietly observed that House had begun a slow spiral into a deep depression again. But she had chosen not to take action this time due to their already rocky and tenuous relationship. Turns out Wilson didn't notice what she had.

Guilt flares up in Wilson, but he suppresses it.

"At least I still care for him! I didn't trample all over him – "

"I care for him, I still – "

"Really? Then did you know that after your wonderful Thanksgiving prank, his leg was giving him hell because he drove for _three hours straight_ without taking a break to stretch his leg? He used _crutches_ to get around for the whole of the next day. Did you know that? He refused to tell me why, and I had to find out only after I threatened to ask you myself! Did you care about the fact that you haven't given him a single chance at all this year? That he's trying his very best?"

"I…"

"I thought that you were bad enough last year when you made him climb the stairs and stole his cane with all those juvenile tricks. You were hurting him physically that time. This time, you were hurting him _emotionally_. And that's so much worse!"

Wilson is shouting at the top of his voice now, and Cuddy is staring at him, open-mouthed in shock at how angry he is. The oncologist is never flustered, never so angry.

"I don't know who you are anymore, Cuddy," he mutters, "I know you've given him many chances over the years… but this time, you didn't give him a chance at all. And this time, it was when he most needed and wanted it."

The same thoughts had run through her head earlier, but hearing them from Wilson's mouth makes it all the more painful for her to know and accept. More tears start to form, and she turns her head away from him.

He walks away from her and goes to sit on another block of concrete. He shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes. Despite his outburst at Cuddy, he knows that for the past few weeks, he hasn't been the best pillar of support for House too.

And now he is terrified to death because he doesn't know if he'll get a second chance to make things right. And he knows Cuddy is probably thinking the same thing.

_If House gets out alive, I'm going to get him to move back into the loft, _Wilson resolves.

His phone rings again. Sam. Somehow, he can't bring himself to pick up the phone when he knows that she's the reason he had kicked House out. He silences the phone.

The time ticks by. Wilson watches as the rescue workers work on the immense pile of rubble. He's never actually been involved in rescue work, so he doesn't understand what they're doing. He's just sitting there, hoping that what they're doing is actually working and is swift enough for them to get to House before time runs out.

He's terrified to death, because being House's best friend means that he has watched many a TV programme or trashy movie about such disaster scenarios. He doesn't even know if House is alive anymore. That wrenches at his heart, because he knows that he needs a second chance to live up to the promise he had first made when he had picked House up from Mayfield – that he would help House in whatever way to stay clean and – _this was a silent promise, never spoken out loud but agreed upon by the two_ - to find happiness.

House could be dead right now. Or he could be bleeding to death. Or in so much pain. Or he could be suffocating to death.

There is a reason House calls Wilson a _serial worrier_. The worst case scenarios just play over and over again in Wilson's head.

There is nothing he can do, but wait.

Wilson checks his watch. Two hours has passed by since he has arrived. House has been stuck down there for nearly three hours.

A rescue worker comes up to stand between Cuddy and Wilson. They're about twenty feet apart, but he knows that they both know the Dr House that is stuck down there, thanks to the stricken expressions on their faces. He looks left, at Cuddy, and right, at Wilson. Who is he supposed to approach?

They both notice the rescue worker standing uncertainly in the space between them at the same time, and they immediately spring to their feet and rush towards him, eager for news.

When they hear that a path down has been cleared, an audible sigh of relief can be heard from Wilson, while more tears stream down Cuddy's cheeks. But they can't celebrate, not yet.

_Is House still alive? _

"One of our men went down to check on him. He's alive but in pretty bad shape, and we would like a doctor to examine him first before we move anything and try to extract him."

At the words _he's alive_, Wilson feels lightheaded with relief.

The rescue worker is looking at Cuddy while he's saying this, because she's in her jumpsuit and is obviously a doctor, while Wilson is in his usual dress shirt and tie.

Cuddy immediately offers to go, saying, "I'll go."

But Wilson cuts in. "No. I'm going. Not you."

Cuddy turns to look at him. From the expression on his face, she knows that it is not out of concern that he is saying so. The look on his face tells her that he doesn't think she deserves to go, not after all she'd said and done to him.

"But Wilson, I – "

"I'm his best friend."

"And I'm his – "

"You're his what? Friend? Boss? You couldn't decide for the past year."

Cuddy falls silent, because she knows there isn't a suitable definition. Not any more.

Wilson sees the look on her face, and regrets slightly his harsh words. He knows that they're both on the same side here. But the frustration of the past year that has accumulated is too hard to get over. Sometimes the most drastic of situations, like this, can't change the facts of what has happened. But he tries.

He softens slightly, and touches her arm. "I'm going, Cuddy. I know you want to, but I'm going." His voice is firm and his face is set in determination.

The rescue worker hands him a safety helmet, muttering under his breath _idiots who forget to give the doc a helmet… I'll be damned that a repeat of this happen again so no docs better die on my watch. _

Wilson gets angry at first for the rescue worker making it sound like House was creating more trouble. But he studies the lean man in front of him, and realizes that it's the team leader he's with. The tag on his jumper identifies him to be Brad.

And Brad is pissed that safety protocols had not been followed by his workers, resulting in House's life being at more risk than it should be. There's a reason why all rescue workers wear safety helmets. And it turns out that they had forgotten to give one to House.

Wilson knows he should be mad at the oversight of the rescue worker who had assisted House, but all he can think about is what shape he's going to find House in. Some part of him is skeptical, and cannot fully believe the assessment that House is alive.

Wilson will only believe it when he sees it with his own eyes.

Wilson puts on his helmet, gets on his knees, and starts to crawl in. The space is tight and there is much maneuvering and twisting of his body to be done. His first thought is _how the hell did House manage to get in and out?_ Then he thinks, _he must be in agony right now, the leg will definitely be cramping_.

Then he realizes to what extent House had connected with Hanna. That he had, heedless of his leg, climbed in and out of the rubble in order to treat her, and try to save her. Wilson swallows, because he has no idea how they're going to break the news that Hanna is dead.

It's nearly pitch dark, the only light coming from the headlamp of the helmets on his head. Brad leads the way with a bag of emergency medical supplies. Wilson can hear faint voices above them, and knows that it must be the rescue workers shouting instructions above. He shudders at the thought that the shouts and yells, which are so loud and authoritative above ground, are simply whispers in the background here in the rubble. Instead, the space is filled with the sounds of debris being shifted around by his and Brad's limbs, and with the heavy breathing of them both from the exertion of crawling in the small space. Wilson's clothes get caught on sharp edges, and his expensive loafers will be ruined by the time this is over, but for once, Wilson really doesn't care about his appearance.

Finally, they stop. Ahead of Brad lies a figure, surrounded by debris and twisted metal. Brad shifts to the side to let Wilson pass. Wilson hesitates.

He can feel it – he is so close to finding out the truth, to finding out whether House is _alive_. His heart is thudding fast and hard, and he feels nauseous with fear. He wonders if the truth that he will encounter will break his heart or give him renewed hope all over again.

He scrambles as fast as he can towards House's still figure, and he looks frantically for any signs of life before he even takes in House's injuries and physical appearance fully.

The concrete slab on top of House prevent Wilson from looking for the rise and fall of the chest, for any sign of breathing.

_Concrete slab on top of House. _

For now, Wilson doesn't register the fact that there is a goddamn concrete slab on top of his best friend. But somewhere inside him, he knows that it will hit him hard soon, and he'll reel from the absurdity and seriousness of this whole situation.

At this moment, he isn't Dr Wilson, the Head of Oncology at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, one of the top in the country. He isn't one of the best doctors in the country, here to save a life.

No, he is Jimmy Wilson, best friend of Greg House. And he is here to find out whether his best friend is still alive.

He extends his left hand towards House's neck, knowing that he has to locate the carotid pulse. His hand trembles visibly.

He presses his two fingers against _that spot_ on House's neck. He feels like a medical intern all over again, fumbling to find a pulse. For a heart-stopping moment, there is nothing.

Still lying on his stomach, Wilson drops his forehead and rests it on the ground. He finds himself praying. He holds his breath, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to miss the smallest sign of life.

But there it is. A pulse.

Weak, but _there_.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3  
><strong>How to save a life

_Lay down a list of what is wrong_  
><em>The things you've told him all along<em>  
><em>And pray to God he hears you<em>

- How To Save A Life, The Fray

* * *

><p>"House. Come on, House. Wake up."<p>

There is no response. The doctor in Wilson kicks in. _This is it._ It's up to him. He knows he needs to be the doctor now, not the worried best friend with trembling hands.

He takes in a deep breath, trying not to choke on the dust in the air.

_I can do this. _

He runs his fingers through House's hair, trying to check for any signs of head trauma. He swallows hard as his fingers run over a small indent at the back of House's head. But it's closed, so there's no bleeding. On the outside, at least. There is a nasty gash on House's temple, running from his hairline down to his eye. Wilson can see that there are small bits of gravel stuck in it. Nothing he can do now. He removes a thick wad of gauze from the bag of medical supplies and tapes it firmly to House's head. Immediately, the blood starts to seep through.

Wilson forces himself to look at the concrete slab. It's on top of House's body. Nothing he can do about that for the moment. Wilson moves further down, and -

House stirs, a soft moan escaping from his parted lips.

"House? Can you hear me? Wake up, come on. Open your eyes."

Wilson crawls back up towards House's head so that he can establish eye contact with House. The space is so small that Wilson can barely lift his head off the ground, and has to pull himself forward on his elbows with his stomach flat on the ground.

"House. Come on buddy, wake up." The words come out of Wilson's mouth, an automatic comfort mechanism that he's so used to employing for his patients. He cringes. He never calls House 'buddy'. House hates it.

House's eyes open slowly. It appears to take a huge amount of effort. His eyes are unfocused, and they roll around as he tries to focus on his surroundings. Wilson reaches out and taps on House's cheek, trying to get him to focus.

"House. Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

House's eyes come to rest on him, and for a terrifying moment, they are blank.

"Wilson…" House breathes, eyes blinking sluggishly.

"Hey. I've got you. Stay awake for me, okay?" Wilson smiles, and for once he's not afraid to show House that there are tears in his eyes. "We're going to get you out of here soon."

House seems to take some time to process his words, but he finally nods slightly. Then his eyes start to droop. Wilson's heart stutters, and he gently slaps House's cheek insistently.

"You've gotta stay awake, House. Don't you dare close your eyes… Don't you dare go to sleep."

Wilson is rewarded with a weak roll of the eyes.

"Not… sleeping. Tired. Rest… a while…"

"No! Don't you dare, House. You're not allowed to. Come on."

Wilson slaps House's cheek a little harder, trying to be as irritating and as much of a nag as possible. House mumbles incoherently under his breath, probably cursing Wilson. But he appears to make an effort to keep his eyes open.

Wilson looks over at Brad, and signals him to come over to keep House awake while he continues with the assessment of House's injuries. He crawls back down towards House's legs. He can see that they're not trapped under the concrete slab. Wilson lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding. Things concerning House's legs always make him nervous. No, they freak him out.

A muffled cry comes from House, and Wilson jerks up, unceremoniously hitting his head on the low ceiling. He sees House struggle slightly, his arms straining as he lifts his head and tries to reach down towards his legs.

Wilson knows full well what House is thinking about. "They're there, House. It's okay. They're still there."

But any attempts by Brad and Wilson to calm him down isn't enough. Upon taking a closer look, Wilson sees why exactly House is so agitated.

Through a rip in House's jeans, Wilson sees the damaged muscles rippling relentlessly, no doubt punishing House for what he had put his leg through earlier in the day. Even worse, there is a deep gash running right across the scar.

Wilson rests his hands over House's right thigh just above and below the gash, fully aware of House trying to jerk his leg away.

"It's okay. I've seen it before…" soothes Wilson. "You've gotta relax, House, or it'll be worse. Just let me… okay?"

It's a different approach he has to take with House this time. He cannot ignore House's pain, nor pretend, as he always does with House, that it is not there. It is House's preferred way of dealing with the pain, and Wilson has to admit that it works for him too. Seeing other human beings in pain is never pleasant. That's why it has become so easy for him to ignore House's pain. And also, probably because that's what House wants most of the time.

But Wilson wonders where the line is drawn. Maybe it has gone too far. Maybe some things just cannot be pushed to the back of the mind where it is allowed to simply fade away over time.

In this moment, House is evidently too agitated and out of it to reject Wilson's caring and soothing. He moans, trying desperately to shift his body to no avail, barely conscious of Wilson's fingers trying to calm the muscle and work out the knots in the muscle.

Wilson cannot help but feel uncomfortable at the pain House is experiencing. The last time he saw House in this level of pain was with the infarction, and that was… ten years ago?

He has clean forgotten the amount of pain that could inflict House on a daily basis, especially when the weather is bad or when he pushes himself to the limit. He has forgotten that each step and each movement is calculated and measured – is whatever needs to be done, worth the pain that will follow?

There is a reason why House's apartment is small. Why things are so compact in the office and at home, with everything he needs not more than a few steps away. Why there is a recliner and ottoman in House's office. Why House's clothes are always so wrinkled.

Because ironing clothes requires standing. So does cleaning up – that involves bending and lifting things. And House naps at work sometimes because he can't sleep at night. And the ottoman is a necessity because he needs to prop his legs up. Which is also why sometimes, he seems so unprofessional with his legs up on the desk.

The list can go on and on, Wilson realizes. He's just clean forgotten all of that. Because of time, these things have become the norm. It has become too easy to forget that before all this happened, House could walk and run and jump and sweat and do anything without having to conduct an impromptu cost-benefit analysis each time. That even though this is what House has to live with for the rest of his life, it is in no way, _normal_. For anyone. Not even for House. It is debilitating, depressing and an absolutely horrible prospect to have to live the rest of your life in chronic pain. To not have a single moment of consciousness where there is no pain. Imagine that.

As he kneads at the wasted landscape of muscle, Wilson realizes with an unpleasant jolt that all empathy he'd had for House post-infarction had simply faded away with time. All the different debacles they had to go through since the infarction had just whittled it away.

House was simply so strong in putting up that mask – the one that said everything was fine and that he didn't need anyone – that it was just easier to believe him than to probe deeper.

And now, without the Vicodin, things had to be worse.

_God._ How had they all let things get this way? Wilson, Cuddy, the team, people in the hospital… even House was at fault for this. They had let the arrogant bastard façade dictate it all, forgetting the vulnerable man deep inside who'd climbed out of a deep, dark abyss and now kept everyone away at arm's length to protect himself. Even though they had all seen with their own eyes how he had struggled after the infarction.

"It's okay… House, you still with me? Everything's going to be okay…"

"Hurts… Wilson… It hurts…"

Wilson can tell that House is totally out of it. House hasn't let himself be so vulnerable and open with his pain for years. It's like they've gone years back in time, to the times when Wilson would coax House through the breakthrough pain in the middle of the night.

It's funny how things work. It's dark all around them now too.

Wilson vaguely recalls giving Brad some instructions, and then they're alone in the darkness.

Wilson forces himself to continue examining House while he continues to rub at his thigh, pointedly avoiding the deep gash that is still bleeding. The muscles are still refusing to comply, and they stubbornly continue to contract and wrench away.

House's left leg is at an awkward angle. Wilson can from one glance that it's broken. He pushes away the thought of the painful recovery that will follow after this whole thing is over. First, they need to get out alive.

"Hurts…"

"I know. It's okay. We're going to get out of here soon. Talk to me, House… Gotta stay awake… You know where you are?"

A long pause. "Collapse… Crane?"

"It's okay. We're getting out of here soon." Wilson keeps one hand on House's thigh while he uses the other to rummage in the bag for more gauze and bandages.

"Hanna?" House asks weakly.

This is no time to tell House the truth. Even though House seems to be the ultimate human polygraph, Wilson lies through his teeth this time. He can deal with the consequences later.

"I saw her at the hospital, House. She's okay."

To his relief, House seems to accept Wilson's blatant lie. Seeing House's eyes start to droop again, Wilson reaches over and nudges House insistently. It worries him that House seems to be getting weaker and less aware of his surroundings as time passes.

Somewhere out there, Wilson can hear the sounds of drills and power tools at work. They're closer than they seemed to be earlier. Wilson checks his watch. He's been down here with House for close to 45 minutes.

"We're going to get you out soon, House. You hear that? Help's coming," Wilson babbles, his words running together in his anxiety. "We're gonna get this slab off you, then we'll get you to the hospital. Then I'll give you the good stuff, take away the pain, okay?"

House nods weakly, the corner of his lips quirking upwards slightly, no doubt at Wilson's babbling.

Then House's breath stutters as he seems to realize something. He grips Wilson's arm surprisingly strongly.

"Wilson," he rasped, "Is my leg stuck? Is it buried? Don't… Don't cut it off. Please don't."

"It's not stuck, House."

"Promise you won't cut it off, Wilson… You have to promise me."

"House, it's really not trapped. It's – "

"Promise, Wilson. _Promise me_." House is gasping slightly now, a look of panic and fear bubbling up in his eyes.

Seeing House start to work himself into a frenzy, Wilson crawls up to plant his face in front of House's.

"You told Hanna that it was just a leg, House. You got her to amputate, you saved her life. Why can't you do the same for yourself? _It's just a leg_."

But House stubbornly continues, slightly irrational with pain and fear and from being trapped underground. He turns his head away as he pleads, "Promise me, Wilson… Don't. Please don't cut off my leg. _Please_."

"I'm not going to let them cut it off, okay? I promise. There is no need to anyway. House… Look at me." Wilson gently tugs on House's chin, and forces him to look into his eyes. "Your legs are not stuck. They are okay. _Trust me_. Even though it's just a damn leg – "

"They're all…" House shudders. "... I have left."

Wilson's attempts at reassurances are all forgotten as he hears those words escape from House's lips.

"_What?_ No, House… They're not all you have left… You've still got – "

For some reason, House bares it all in this moment. Maybe it's the darkness. Maybe it's because this is just him and Wilson, his best friend, here, together, huddled together as if they're sharing a secret. Maybe it's just because he's delirious with pain and fear and loneliness and there are no defenses and walls left to be raised. Not anymore.

For whatever reason, it just comes out – the pure unadulterated truth.

"No… Only have leg…"

"There's – "

"I have nothing… You have Sam. Cuddy, Lucas… She's right… You're all moving on. Only have myself… and leg..." House mumbles, only half lucid. Then he degenerates into some sort of panic again, and he shudders. "You can't let them cut off my leg, Wilson… You can't. _I'm alone_. I can't… I can't… Have nothing… I need my legs, please. _Please._"

Wilson feels a fury boil up in him. Cuddy's words. Were they what ran through House's mind as he did Hanna's amputation, or when he was lying in the darkness, alone?

"You're not alone, House…"

"_I have nothing_… I just want… legs, Wilson. Want to walk…" House rasps, turning his head away. "Everybody's happy, moving… on… Just keep my legs... I can… by myself."

"House. No! Come on, look at me. Don't look away. Look at me. _Listen to me_."

Wilson gently turns House's head, and makes sure that the half-lidded blue eyes are looking into his own brown ones. He tries to send across all his apologies and reassurances in his eyes, to get his message through clearly to House. House's eyes are glazed over, but wild with a sort of panic and fear.

"House. Listen to me…"

House feebly tries to jerk his head away, but Wilson firmly keeps it facing him. He needs to get this through to House, before it takes root and festers within him. If it came to that point, no one would be able to get through. Not even Wilson.

"Just listen, okay? I know Cuddy said some stuff just now. Maybe she was right, up to a certain point. But it's not all true, okay? Because you're not alone, House. Okay? You have me," Wilson says gently but firmly. "_You have me._ I know I've messed up recently with Sam and all, and I'm sorry. But I'm back. _You still have me_."

As Wilson repeats and reiterates his words again and again, House seems to calm down. Wilson cannot help but feel shitty, that House still places trust in him despite the past year. The past year had been horrible. He'd even paid House's team to take him out. What the hell?

Wilson reaches over and surreptitiously thumbs away the tears that had unknowingly pooled in the hollows of House's face.

"It's okay, House. I won't let them cut off your legs…You can trust me… I promise, okay? _I'm here_. I'm not leaving until you get out, okay? _I'm here with you_."

House nods feebly, eyes closed and breath hitching slightly. His short outburst had taken too much out of him. He stretches his right hand down, trying to reach his leg, but he can't reach it. Wilson grabs hold of the hand instead.

"Stay awake, House. Still with me?"

House only nods slightly in response, parched lips moving soundlessly.

It's getting harder to keep him awake now. Wilson palms away the sweat that trickles down his face and neck. He anxiously checks his watch. An hour and a half has passed.

_Oh God_. This was probably the most raw and honest moment he's had with House in a long while. Years, maybe. So much of their friendship is based on manipulation, bitching, jokes, arguments, debates and rationalizations that Wilson had forgotten how intense House's emotions truly were, since House was so good at hiding them. Not that House would show it to anyone easily, even to Wilson, but still. Wilson, the closest person to House, should know.

_Damnit_, thought Wilson. How had it deteriorated all to this state?

Brad appears again, this time with several other co-workers. They work on trying to clear a bigger space and pathway so that they can get to work on House and the concrete slab on top of him.

"We can get him out, Dr Wilson. You can - "

"No. No, I'm staying with him."

Brad hands Wilson a pair of earplugs that he digs out from his pocket. "It's going to get noisy."

There isn't any for House, who's now only semi-conscious. Wilson reaches over and covers House's ears with his hands the best that he can even though he knows House probably won't register a thing.

Finally, a stretcher appears. Wilson can almost cry with relief. They're nearly there. _So close. _

Then, they can start all over again. Forget the disaster that was the past year. Forget all the wrong turns that had been taken in the past year. Start anew. Because he knew how tough the entire recovery process was going to be - emotionally and physically.

"Dr Wilson, ready to get him out?"

Wilson nods.

"House, you still here with me?" Wilson lifts his hands off House's ears as he whispers to him. He is slightly dismayed as he realizes that House is unconscious.

"We're getting you and _both_ your legs out now. I promise. You're safe," Wilson reiterates. "_I'm here_."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Eck, I think it's quite clear over here that I was really pissed with how Wilson treated House in Season 6. It was beyond horrible to see Wilson treat House, who was obviously trying so hard, that way. I'm basing this on how I imagine the friendship used to be before all that turmoil was thrown in through the seasons. _

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews. _


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4  
><strong>**The author of the wrong **

_And I said what I said and I meant it  
>But now I regret it <em>

- Swan Song, A Fine Frenzy

* * *

><p>Cuddy paces. It takes her twenty steps each time before she encounters rubble, and has to turn and retrace her steps.<p>

Back and forth, back and forth. It's the only thing she can do.

Time seems to inch past. Like water that slowly, slowly drips from a tap. Incessantly, gratingly. She checks her watch, paces, waits for next minute to pass, checks her watch again, paces, waits for the next minute to pass again.

When she finally sees the flurry of activity that she knows accompanies an impending rescue, she thinks back and wonders just how she managed to wait nearly two hours without going neurotic.

She whips out her phone. She ignores the missed calls and messages from Lucas. It comes naturally to her - "I want Drs Chase and Foreman at the ER. And Dr Matthews. " The person on the phone – _A nurse? Her assistant? One of her doctors? She doesn't really care who it is at this moment_ – tells her that Dr Matthews isn't on call, but Cuddy insists that she wants the best in orthopaedics checking out her diagnostician.

This whole rescue and extraction of House has been out of her control. It's the rescue workers, and Wilson, running the show. But once he's out, everything will be under _her_ control as he is transported to _her_ hospital. Under the care of _her_ doctors and nurses. This is when she can actually start doing something to help him. God only knows how much she has to do to make up for the year that has passed. But for now, this is actually all she can do. She's not down there with him, waiting for rescue with him like Wilson is doing right now. She's not one of the many rescue workers trying to clear a safe path to extract him through. All she can do is make sure that her hospital, her doctors and her nurses are ready to do whatever it takes.

"We're bringing him up!" someone yells, "Slow and steady, boys!"

Cuddy rushes over when she sees the stretcher. Time seems to slow when she takes in the sight of House, broken and still. He is covered in dust, gravel and blood. But he's breathing. And he has a pulse.

Then things speed up frantically. It's a rush over to the waiting ambulance. Cuddy is about to climb aboard when Wilson shoves her his car keys. "I'm going, Cuddy. I'll meet you at the ER." She looks at him, about to argue that she'll follow House instead.

But then she sees the look on his face. It's a mixture of a multitude of feelings. They clamor to be expressed on his face, and he seems to barely be able to hold it all together. It's a foreign look on his face. Wilson is usually unflappable in the face of medical emergencies. The last time she saw a similar look was with Amber Right now, House is to Wilson what Amber was two years ago. Someone precious, someone loved.

She wonders what went on down there. And she knows she can't say no to Wilson. She mutely takes the keys, but refuses to leave right now. She walks briskly alongside the gurney, wanting to watch House get on the ambulance, which is some distance away.

House briefly regains consciousness. "Hurts… Don't take my leg… Hurts bad…" he mumbles under his breath. "Wilson… it hurts… Wilson promised… Where's Wilson? " He tries to shift his head, but is restricted by the cervical collar.

He doesn't seem to register the fact that Cuddy slips her hands into his. He doesn't squeeze her hand back. Her face is right in front of him, and she is there trying to comfort him. It's like she's not there – her touch, her face and her words all don't register with him. He just keeps asking for Wilson.

Cuddy cannot help but feel distraught that she is practically invisible and unable to offer comfort to House. She knows it's irrational to feel that way, because he is injured and semi-conscious. But she wants to be able to comfort him. She wants to be able to soothe him and calm him down and assure him that everything will be okay. That he will be okay. _That they will be okay. _

Wilson climbs up into the ambulance as House is lifted into the back. He runs his hand through House's hair. Reassurances rushes out of Wilson, and the words tumble over one another in his haste to get them out.

"It's okay, House. I'm here. You're not alone, okay? We're going to get you to the hospital now. We're safe. I'm here. _I'm not leaving_."

The last thing Cuddy sees before the door of the ambulance slams close is Wilson slipping his hand into House's, where her very own had been just moments earlier. It doesn't escape her notice that House squeezes back, and holds on so tightly it's like he's afraid Wilson will disappear.

* * *

><p>It is organized chaos when House is wheeled into one of the ER cubicles.<p>

The doors to the ER burst open, and Wilson is shouting updates of House's vitals to the waiting doctors and nurses as he runs alongside the gurney together with the paramedics.

Cuddy arrives a few minutes later to see her doctors and nurses working furiously but efficiently.

Foreman performing neuro checks. The ER attending checking out House's crushed torso. Matthews checking out House's legs, paying particular attention to House's right thigh. Chase running in to get an update, then rushing to scrub in. Wilson is beside an unconscious House through it all, not letting go of his hand, getting in the way of the ER team until Taub forcibly removes House's hand from Wilson's. He yanks Wilson to the side, and shoves a cup of steaming hot coffee into his hands.

Then House is whisked off into surgery, and suddenly, it's just Cuddy and Wilson in the gallery overlooking the OR.

Down below, House is lying prone on the operating table with a tube running out of his mouth. Foreman is at the head of the OR table, examining scans of House's head. Cuddy can hear Wilson's sharp intake of breath as Chase makes the first incision into House's torso. Foreman drills a hole into House's head to relieve the intracranial pressure. Matthews works on House's legs.

After a while, Wilson turns away from the glass window and turns to look at the wall. It's as if he can barely stand to watch it anymore. His phone rings. He checks the screen, then silences it.

"Do you know what he said to me," Wilson says dully as he stares at the wall. "He _pleaded _with me. He pleaded with me to not cut off his legs, even if they were trapped." His voice is seemingly toneless, as if he doesn't know what to feel. Then he chuckled mirthlessly. Nervously. As though he couldn't quite believe it himself. "He would rather die than have his legs cut off. Can you believe that?"

He raised his right hand to lean against the wall. Then there was silence. He turned to look at her. He spoke as if he was musing out loud, and reflecting on House's words. Sure, he had understood what House meant when they were down there. But to say it out loud and to verbalise it and to accept it was a whole different matter.

"He said that his two legs were all he had left… He said that he would take anything that came _by himself_, as long as he had his legs. Go through PT, rehab, everything, you know? And he hates that… He would know, because he went through it after the infarction… And he would rather go through that again than have me cut off his legs to get him out… I can't even… Do you know why he said that?"

Cuddy can't find it in herself to respond. There is a growing sense of horror. Her words had been hurtful, yes, but she didn't know that it had struck House so deeply. They've always unleashed razor-sharp wit upon each other.

_But_, a small voice in her mind pipes up, _this time, it wasn't witty or snarky or sarcasm. It was pure, outright, hurtful words._

"Because he truly believes that he's alone now… and that they're all he has left. Fancy that. Thinking that your own physical body was all you had left in the world…"

"Wilson… I… I just – "

"Words matter, you know? I have patients who find it in themselves to continue fighting on even when it gets too hard, because they hear words of love and encouragement from their loved ones… But words can hurt too."

"Wilson… In the heat of the moment, trying to get Hanna out… I just…" She doesn't quite know what to say. "_I didn't mean it_."

"You probably did, Cuddy. You probably meant it at that moment. And now you can't take them back. He'll always remember those words."

"Please stop, Wilson. _Please stop_." Cuddy leans against the wall, the heels of her hands shoved into her eyes. She's so tired. Six hours out in the field, half of which was spent worrying about House and what she had said. She's reached her limit. She doesn't need Wilson telling her again that she's wrong.

Or maybe she does need to hear it.

"I'm so sorry…"

"I'm not the person you should apologize to," he says coldly.

Then a silence falls upon the gallery as they stand on opposite sides of the small room, watching Chase wrist-deep in House's broken body.

Cuddy's phone rings again. Lucas. She looks at her screen – it's a picture of her, Lucas and Rachel. Somehow, it doesn't give her that warm feeling in her heart that it used to. She silences it, and flings it onto the seat.

She buries her head in her hands, and waits. Again. It seems like all she's done in the past six hours is wait. Wait for House to come around to his senses to amputate Hanna's leg. Wait for House to be rescued. Wait for her staff to evaluate his status. Wait for his surgery to be over.

Who knows how much more waiting she'll have to do in the coming days? She feels so useless.

Wilson's voice interrupts her thoughts.

"Blythe? It's James here… It's Greg… He was involved in rescue work for a building collapse downtown… There was a secondary collapse, and he was trapped… He's in surgery now… He'll be okay, really, our best doctors are trying their best… Someone will pick you up at the airport… I'm so sorry, Blythe… Please, travel safe. I'll see you when you get here… I'll be here with him all the way…"

Wilson snaps shut his phone. Cuddy hears him sigh audibly.

"House wouldn't want his mother to know," she ventures tentatively.

"She deserves to know. He doesn't want to be alone… And Blythe should be by his side. He loves her and will want her, even if he doesn't say so," Wilson shoots back. "And Blythe will kill me for hiding this from her. He's her only son."

Cuddy cannot help but agree.

The tense silence descends upon the room once more. Cuddy feels restless. She needs to do _something_.

"Wilson… You should go change out, take a shower."

"No."

"James…"

"_No._"

"He's in surgery anyway..."

"I'm staying here with him," he says stubbornly. "I promised him that I wasn't leaving. So, _no_."

"I'm here."

"I made a promise," he pauses, as though contemplating whether to say something. "And I don't think you being here... It – You weren't here for him when it mattered. Go home to Lucas and Rachel."

Cuddy recoils. Such words coming from Wilson's mouth… They are definitely an anomaly. That's when she realizes how terrified Wilson is for House, and how disastrous the whole year had been for all of them.

"Wilson, please don't – " her voice breaks as she tears up.

Wilson sighs, exasperated with both himself and her. "_Don't,_ Cuddy, dammit. Because I can't trust myself to not blow up at you right now. And I don't want to do that. So I'm going to ask you to back off."

Knowing that nothing she says at the moment will make a difference, and that Wilson just wants some silence, Cuddy decides to keep her mouth. But she says, "I'm staying."

Wilson doesn't seem to acknowledge her. His eyes are glued to the OR below them.

They watch as Chase tries to fix House back together again. To make him whole and healthy again, physically. Who knows how much more mending there will be to do for the things that cannot be seen?

Time ticks by, the two of them sitting in silence together in the gallery. Wilson is still in his torn shirt and pants, covered in dust and small scrapes. Cuddy is in her jumpsuit, hair tousled and eyes bloodshot from crying.

Finally, Chase looks up at the gallery and offers a shaky thumbs-up. Cuddy can see the fear and exhaustion in the young doctor's eyes. There is definitely relief in there. For once, uncharacteristically, House gets through surgery without crashing or any other major scares.

All the tension seems to slip away slowly. Cuddy hugs herself, shivering as the adrenaline that kept her blood flowing, keeping her warm, slowly fades away.

Wilson slumps forward in his chair, and his tense muscles gradually unknot and untie themselves.

"I'm sorry," he offers softly, exhaustion evident in every word. "About my words earlier… just now… they were too harsh."

He seems to become the gentle oncologist that he usually is again. The protective best friend standing up for House slowly fades into the background. But she can still see him there, waiting to leap out again if necessary. She's forgotten about this side of Wilson, over the years. She saw it post-infarction, and in the first few years House had returned to work in the hospital. Then, occasionally, when Stacy came back, and when House got shot. But, she realizes, it had largely faded away as years went by. As House pushed people away. As House did crazier and crazier things, and implicated others.

Wilson looks at her, waiting for her response.

Cuddy knows it was the stress of the entire moment that had made him say those words; much like how she had let her careless and hurtful words slip out of her mouth earlier with House. She was in no position to hold it against him – not when she too, had committed the same mistake just a few hours earlier.

"It's okay…"

A small, sad smile from Wilson. Then he stands up, and leaves the gallery as House, below them, is wheeled out of the OR.

Cuddy is left sitting there alone.

The alarm on her phone rings, signaling the start of a new day.

She doesn't quite know what to expect of the coming days. She doesn't quite know how to go about making things right. But most of all, after facing the prospect of losing him, she doesn't quite know how to deal with the feelings she now is sure she has for House.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**  
><em>Falling Awake <em>

* * *

><p>Wilson slips into House's ICU room just as he is being transferred from gurney to bed. He watches as the nurses carefully arrange House's limp body on the bed.<p>

He smiles a thank you at them, and sinks into the recliner that an orderly brought in for him.

"Hey…" He speaks softly to his unconscious friend. The anesthesia won't wear off for a few more hours. "I know you think what I'm doing is stupid… But I think you can hear me. Just… rest, okay? You're fine. You're banged up pretty good, but your legs are still attached. Just rest. I'll be here, waiting."

Sitting in a recliner and waiting for House to wake up is an experience all too familiar to Wilson, thanks to the various health scares House has had through the years.

He sighs. Then he remembers he needs to call Sam.

After their quick conversation, during which Sam reassures him that House is going to be okay, and that she understands perfectly, Wilson falls asleep in the recliner.

Cuddy stands outside the ICU, and watches Wilson. Knowing that she doesn't really deserve to be there at the moment, she doesn't go in. She settles for standing outside, her palm on the glass door as she looks in.

She wants so much to stay, but knows she can't. She has responsibilities, and a fiancé waiting for her at home. Suddenly, the engagement ring in her desk drawer is like a rock weighing down on her heart. She was thrilled when he proposed, but now, she realizes it seems more like an obligation she is trying to fulfill in order to be a good mother to Rachel. Maybe she was thrilled at the fact that she would soon be able to give Rachel a complete family.

Before she leaves the hospital, she walks into her office, and takes the book that House gave her just hours earlier.

She sits in her car. She opens the book, and she cries.

As she is slipping into bed next to her sleeping boyfriend, she can't help but feel that it's the wrong place to be.

* * *

><p>The beeping of the monitors rouses Wilson from his sleep.<p>

House is stirring, and there is a low moan of distress. Wilson feels almost giddy with relief when House opens his eyes.

"Wilson…" House breathes, blinking sluggishly as he tries to fight off the anesthesia. "You're here…" He almost sounds surprised.

"Hey." Wilson grins so widely he thinks he can feel his face split in half.

"Mm' back hurts…"

Wilson's smile fades slightly. "That's because you broke your back. But there's no spinal cord injury," he adds quickly. The last thing he wants is to freak House out. "I'll up the pain meds for you. Just rest now. Don't fight it."

House nods slightly, and then closes his eyes again, appearing to drift off. Wilson checks his watch. It's only been four hours since surgery. It's unusual for patients to wake up this soon.

Then there is a slight spike in heart rate and blood pressure. Wilson can see House's hands right hand twitching slightly, as though he is trying to move it. But he can't fight off the anesthesia. House slurs something under his breath. It's soft, but Wilson has been friends with House for a long time. He leans in slightly, and catches the words "leg" and "there".

He swallows hard. He knows what House is trying to do.

He gently moves House's right hand onto his thigh. There is a thick bandage there, courtesy of the deep laceration, but as soon as House's hand lands on his leg, his heart rate slows down slightly. Wilson then shifts the left hand onto the broken left leg, and House's heart rate settles back into the normal range again. The blood pressure drops back down, and House seems to settle comfortably again.

Wilson is woken once again when a nurse comes in to check on House. She smiles apologetically, does her job efficiently, then leaves. Wilson once again notices a spike in heart rate and pressure. He sees that the nurse has shifted House's hands back onto the bed during her checks. He repositions House's hands. Again, the heart rate and pressure fall back to normal.

* * *

><p>News spread quickly through the PPTH grapevine that Dr House had been caught in the secondary collapse. Wilson's secretary took it upon herself to cancel all of his appointments for the next two days. She'd been around long enough to know what he would do in situations like this. Cuddy's assistant cancelled all her morning appointments, knowing that she would come in late after staying around till dawn to observe his surgery.<p>

House's team take over his care. Taub's on the first shift, since he didn't participate in the surgery, and went home the earliest. Then Foreman and Chase come in around noon, and they take turns coming in to check on him hourly. Thirteen isn't around.

Chase, having met Blythe before, picks her up at the airport. She is understandably frantic with worry. He tries his best to reassure her that the surgery went well, but he knows she needs to see him before she can actually process that he's going to be okay. Still, she thanks him for _saving Greg's life_. He shudders at the memory of House's crushed torso.

He escorts her up to the ICU, and when she steps in and looks at her son, he can hear the audible gasp. For a while, she sways on the spot, and he catches hold of her in case she falls. She doesn't, though.

Wilson wakes with a start, and seeing Blythe, jumps to his feet.

"Blythe… I'm so sorry."

"Oh, James… I'm sure it's not your fault. Is he… how bad is it?"

Wilson looks to Chase. He didn't actually get a full report yesterday, having crashed in the recliner, exhausted from the day's events.

Chase jumps in, explaining everything in simple terms for Blythe. "He broke his back, two ribs and his left leg… And there was some bleeding in his brain… But he'll make a full recovery with physical therapy…"

Blythe looks lost. She stares at the drain snaking out of her son's skull, and at the numerous bandages and scrapes all over his body.

"You can touch him, you know… He's fine, Blythe." Wilson guides her into the chair, and gently places her hand on House's. "He's going to be fine."

"Are you sure? He looks so fragile…"

Wilson crouches down next to the old lady, and smiles his most reassuring smile. "I'm sure. He's not in a coma. He's just under the effects of the general anesthesia."

Blythe nods mutely. Chase and Wilson sit down in the visitors' chairs, and they wait together.

"Tell me what happened." Blythe breaks the silence. Her gaze never leaves her son.

"He was helping a woman who was trapped in the rubble…"

"Greg? With his leg?"

Wilson recalls what Cuddy had told him over the phone when he had asked her the very same question. "She only wanted him…" He considers telling Blythe everything that had happened, including what Cuddy had done, and the emotional time he had spent with House in the rubble. But he decides against it.

"He amputated her leg. And while he was trying to make his way back out, the secondary collapse happened."

Blythe considers this, and nods. Then she turns to Wilson, and notices his disheveled appearance, as well as the small scrapes and tears in his clothes. She reaches over, and gently dusts off some of the residual gravel on his shirtsleeve.

"You went down…?" She knows the extent of her son's friendship with James. They have something so profound she doesn't think she can even begin to understand. All she knows is that James is a good influence on Greg, and that she can count on James to take good care of Greg. She knew he was a keeper when he helped House through the post-infarction period despite House's resentment and depression.

"I went in to check on him before they could get him out," Wilson smiles wearily. He still doesn't really get that he too could have been killed down there if there had been another collapse. It was just the right thing to do at that moment.

"Thank you, James," Blythe murmurs. "Thank you."

"He's my best friend."

* * *

><p>It's a few hours later when House wakes again.<p>

When he opens his eyes, the first person he sees is his mom. She's bent over him, all teary-eyed. Before he can say anything, she leans in, and kisses his forehead.

"Greg dear… I'm so glad you're okay."

"My legs…" His voice is a hoarse whisper.

Immediately, Wilson pours a cup of water, sticks a straw in it, and holds it for House to drink. House is too groggy to protest being treated like an infirm.

"Your left femur and tibia are broken. But you still have two legs."

House's hands tighten around his legs. Wilson doesn't miss the naked look of relief on House's face. Blythe too. She gently strokes her son's cheek. She knows he doesn't really like such displays of affection, but he looks like he needs it.

She knows something is wrong by the fact that he doesn't ask her to stop it. Instead, he turns his cheek slightly to almost nuzzle her hand.

He can smell her perfume – that same one she's been wearing for his whole life. When she leans in to kiss him, her body is warm, and her kiss is tender. He is reminded of bedtimes and warm milk and storybooks.

House doesn't know why, but as he turns his head to burrow deeper into his mother's embrace, he can feel his eyes start to burn.

His mom is here. She is the one person who will always love him unconditionally, and who will never leave him alone. Despite the fact that he hardly calls her, she always calls him, and forgives him. She always tolerates him – she chides him when he misbehaves, but there is always that affectionate smile somewhere. They always were a team. And she'll never leave him alone. It's annoying, but for once, he wants her to never leave him alone.

He doesn't realize that he's crying until she thumbs away the single tear track leading from his left eye down to the pillow, and leans in to murmur against his temple. "It's okay… You're safe now, Greg."

The look on his face reminds Blythe of a six year old Greg who had fallen off his bike, hitting his head and waking up in the hospital hours later with a cast on his arm and bandage around his head. She can only imagine how frightening it must have been for him to have been caught in the rubble, under the weight of a building. Her son is brave, but no one can be unafraid in that kind of situation. No one can escape unscathed emotionally.

"Just rest, Greg."

He nods, but before he drifts off, he turns to his friend.

"Dreamt you were down there… with me…"

"I was. They wanted a doctor to assess you before you could be extracted from the rubble."

House blinks as he tries to absorb the implications of that statement. His mind is still foggy.

"Shouldn'a gone down… dangerous…" He frowns, and tries to glare at Wilson. "Don't do that again…"

Wilson smiles how the pain meds and residual effects of the anesthesia rids House of his walls and. Everything is out in the open, including the concern Wilson realizes House always has for him, though it is oft hidden and only expressed through the most covert and smallest of actions.

"Hopefully you'll never get into something like that again," he retorts. "You scared me. When will you stop getting into such situations?"

House only nods drowsily as he drifts off into sleep again. The last thought he has on his mind is that his mom and Wilson are here, and that perhaps, just perhaps, for this moment, he's not alone.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**  
><em>Desire <em>

* * *

><p>When Cuddy wakes from a night of restless sleep, the space on the bed next to her is empty.<p>

Ah. Lucas has been on this particular case for a long time, investigating a particularly wealthy man's adultery. There is a lot at stake – the long-suffering wife has promised a fee of tens of thousands of dollars if Lucas is able to gather sufficient evidence for her to obtain a large alimony upon divorce.

Cuddy lies on her pillow, and stares at her ceiling.

She knows that she and Lucas, on paper, are not compatible. She has a stable, meaningful, well-paying job, while he makes a living snooping around for people. She suspects that some of his dealings are rather shady, but so far, nothing has been sufficient cause for concern.

Her mother has explicitly expressed her disapproval of this relationship. While Cuddy used to dismiss her mother's worry, now, for the first time ever, Cuddy finds herself really doubting whether this relationship is for the long-haul.

Yes, he is great with Rachel, and he is a dependable man. He's nice, funny, and not bad-looking.

But she doesn't feel like herself.

But with House? Unpredictable, cynical and moody House?

With House, she feels _alive_. They exchange barbs and witty snarks, poking fun at each other, stimulating each other's thoughts and feelings. They feed off each other's energy. He keeps her breathless, and excited, and wanting more. He's enigmatic, charming when he wants to be, and definitely not boring. Their relationship is unlike any other she's ever had.

With him, she feels extraordinary. She feels like she could be so much more.

But she doesn't feel that way with Lucas. And as she climbs out of bed, she wonders if she wonders which way she wants to feel for the rest of her life.

* * *

><p>When she walks into the hospital, it's past lunchtime. She makes her way up to the ICU. She looks impeccable, as always, but inside, she is a mess. She doesn't know if she can face House. But she needs to see for herself that he is physically fine. She doesn't wear her engagement ring.<p>

There are several people in House's room. Wilson and Blythe are seated on a couch, talking softly, while Chase and Foreman are checking on House. House is fast asleep, breathing steadily with the oxygen cannula, oblivious to Foreman and Chase probing his surgical sites and injuries.

She winces when she sees the extensive cast on House's left leg – it spans from his hip to just above his ankle. The thick bandage on House's right thigh confirms her suspicion that there will be weeks spent in a wheelchair, and intensive physical therapy ahead. House's right leg is simply not strong enough to support his body weight without a fully functional left leg.

She slips into the room quietly, sliding open the door. Almost immediately, Blythe stands up and envelops her in a hug. She has met Blythe before on several occasions, thanks to House's various health scares and Blythe's regular visits.

"Dr Cuddy… James was just telling me that you were with Greg helping out at the crane collapse too… Are you alright?" Blythe pulls back and scans Cuddy one time over, motherly concern evident.

"I'm fine, Mrs House… I got out before the… the secondary collapse."

"Please, call me Blythe."

"I'm so sorry, Blythe… He shouldn't have been there." Cuddy bites her lips as she apologizes to the genial old lady standing in front of her. House shouldn't have been there, and shouldn't have been climbing in and out of rubble. "I should have stopped him from going in."

Blythe leads Cuddy to sit down on the couch next to her. Cuddy flashes a quick glance at Wilson, thanking him silently for not telling Blythe everything that had transpired. It was not one of her finest moments. Wilson nods back with the slightest quirk of his lips. He's obviously more relaxed now that House is in stable condition.

"Greg… Greg is _strong-willed_." Blythe shakes her head. "You wouldn't have been able to stop him."

Next to Blythe, Wilson snorts. "That's an understatement."

Blythe laughs softly, and lays a hand on Wilson's forearm. "James here does a very good job of taking care of Greg… What would I do without you, James?"

Cuddy watches as Wilson's cheeks turn pink. She is fascinated by this dynamic between Wilson and Blythe. Wilson seems almost like Blythe's own son. He is her accomplice, and he works together with her to ensure that House takes care of himself.

"He does do a good job," Cuddy finds herself agreeing.

She exchanges glances with Wilson. Things are okay between them. They need to stick together in the coming days to deal with the repercussions of their actions, and everything that had just happened.

Chase comes over to offer to bring Blythe to the cafeteria for lunch. Blythe smiles at the charming young man in front of her, and accepts.

"James… It's high time you grabbed some food to eat. Come, let's have lunch together."

"I'll stay here with House," Cuddy offers. "Catch a break, Wilson."

Wilson hesitates before agreeing. "Let me update Cuddy with House's condition first. I'll join you later, Blythe…" Seeing the skeptical look on Blythe's face (he remembers House telling him that she's a human polygraph), he hastily adds, "I promise. Really."

Blythe nods, and leaves with Chase and Foreman.

Cuddy grabs the chart, scanning through it while Wilson provides her with verbal updates.

"He's woke up about three times… The first time was about four hours after surgery. When Blythe arrived at about eleven this morning, he woke up again. Drifted off… Woken about two hours later by spasms in the right leg, I gave him muscle relaxants…"

Cuddy reads in the chart that during surgery, Chase found the beginnings of two ulcers in House's stomach. Wilson follows her gaze, and nods sadly.

"I think we should start him on alternative pain meds… The ibuprofen is wrecking havoc on his stomach. I… noticed, but didn't probe further about it. Should have." He grimaces. "It's been a long time since we discussed House's health huh."

"First time in the ICU in two years," she remarks dryly. "It's a record."

They laugh softly together at that. But their laughter trails off as they look at their friend in the bed.

"We've got a long recovery process ahead of us," Wilson says softly. "Matthews is guessing months of PT."

As if on cue, House's breath hitches. He shifts his right leg slightly, trying for a more comfortable position on the bed. Wilson reaches over and repositions the leg better on the pillow. House slips back into deep slumber, his breathing evening out.

"Yeah," she breathes. "I know."

After Wilson leaves, she drags the chair closer to House's bed. She hesitates for a while before slowly slipping her hand into his right hand. She can feel the callus that has formed across his palm from years of using the cane.

She doesn't know if it's a reflex action on his part, but something in her sputters to life when she feels his hand tighten around hers.

* * *

><p>Cuddy sits in the rest of House's room for the rest of the day. Wilson has brought Blythe back to the loft to settle in and rest, and to catch some well-deserved sleep himself. The only reason they are both willing to leave is that House is still sleeping off the anesthesia.<p>

She knows she's sparking off gossip by moving her laptop to his room and cancelling all her meetings for the rest of the day so that she can stay there all day, but for once, she doesn't care about the PPTH gossip grapevine. She's made a promise to Wilson and Blythe, and she doesn't intend on breaking it.

At least, that's the reason she gives herself.

The sun is setting when there is a knock on the door. She looks up to see Lucas, with Rachel in his arms.

"We heard about what happened… we're here to visit House."

Cuddy hugs Rachel, and settles her on the couch with a pen and some paper. Rachel is content to sit there, scribbling.

Lucas leans over for a longer-than-necessary kiss. Cuddy pulls away after a while, ducking her head to plant a kiss on Rachel's head. It just seems wrong to kiss Lucas in front of House. She didn't have any problem with it before, but now… Now things have changed.

Lucas looks momentarily disappointed, but doesn't say anything. He looks at House, wincing. "Wow. He's in pretty bad shape."

"He's lucky to be alive… I'm so glad he'll be okay."

Lucas looks at her oddly, but doesn't say anything.

"Look, Lucas… There's really no need for you to stay. I'm staying till I finish off this report, and I'm waiting for Wilson comes back. You can go home with Rachel first."

But Lucas refuses to leave without her. He plays with Rachel while Cuddy works on the hospital's budget report. Some part of her tells her that it's just plain wrong for her to sit with her fiancé in front of a severely injured House – it seems almost like they're rubbing it in his face, especially after what she'd heard from Wilson – but she can't work up the effort to chase Lucas away. He can be surprisingly persistent and adamant.

Cuddy falters as she realizes that there is now this very real gaping chasm between her and Lucas. Not physically. He's sitting shoulder to shoulder with her. It's like the feelings for House that she tried so hard to run away from, and to hide, are all bubbling up to the surface again.

She had been distraught after House had gone to Mayfield; it showed her how she could possibly never be together with him. Maybe before Rachel, she could have. But after… no.

And Lucas was (_dare she admit it_) conveniently there. And now she feels horribly guilty about this whole mess.

She shakes her head slightly, closing her eyes.

"You okay, Lisa?" Lucas's concerned voice interrupts her thoughts.

Before she can respond, though, an angry voice cuts through the air.

"What the hell is _he_ doing here?"

A fuming James Wilson stands at the entrance of the room, hands on his hips, staring daggers at Lucas.

"Look, Wilson…" Lucas stands up slowly, his hands raised to protest his innocence, "I'm just here to visit House. And see Lisa."

"House doesn't need you as a visitor."

"_Wilson_." A warning from Cuddy.

"I'm House's friend too," Lucas pipes up. "I have the right to visit him."

Wilson's tone is icy. "You are not his friend. You are just some private investigator he hired while I was away."

"He wouldn't need to hire me if you didn't leave. I was his friend while you were gone. So yeah, I think I have the right to stay here."

Wilson frowns at Lucas's underhanded jibe, but he chooses not to respond to that. Instead, he scoffs, "You're just here to keep your girlfriend by your side."

Lucas narrows his eyes, and his voice takes on a dangerous quality. "She's my _fiancée_. And even if I am… is it wrong?"

Wilson's jaw literally falls to the floor, and he slowly turns towards Cuddy. "Fiancée huh?" His voice is tight and rising in volume by the second. "Something you forgot to mention?"

Cuddy dropped her gaze to the ground. "I haven't told anyone yet…"

"Does House know?" demands Wilson. Lucas too, turns to look at her, obviously interested in her answer.

"He… figured it out." Her voice cracks a little at that. "He even gave me an engagement present."

"Good," Lucas says emphatically before he can stop himself. "He'll know to keep his hands off you then. He already snatched our loft away."

"_I_ bought the loft, you idiot. Not House. And you are a goddamn bastard, Lucas," Wilson spits out, "Get out."

Lucas takes a step towards Wilson. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm Lisa's fiancé, but I'm still House's friend."

"Friend? _Friend?_ Hoho, you are no friend of House's. Not only did you swoop in to woo Cuddy while he was in Mayfield; your insane pranks were dangerous, you know that? You could have killed him! What if he hit his head on the tub after that railing you loosened flew off the wall hit him square in the face? What if he injured himself after you oh-so-accidentally tripped him in front of everyone in the cafeteria? He already has a limp, for God's sake! And you flooded the entire loft… Thousands of dollars in damages! And you call yourself a friend?"

Cuddy's mouth drops open when she hears the laundry list of Lucas's misdeeds. She didn't know Lucas was the culprit behind those pranks. She had asked House whether they ever found the perpetrator, but House had merely rebuffed her, saying that it didn't matter anymore.

"Lucas… You were behind all that? You told me you weren't! And I said I was okay that Wilson had purchased the loft!"

But it's as though Lucas doesn't hear her. He steps towards Wilson again, jaws clenched; they're now just inches apart.

"If I'm not wrong, Dr Wilson," Lucas smirks, "You sawed through House's cane a few years back, causing him to fall. And you didn't even help him up… And you left him behind after he zapped his brain with electricity to save some girl you knew for less than a year, without even talking to him… And you're still his friend, right?"

Wilson sputters at Lucas, at a loss for words. "That's different!"

"And what is this I hear about you kicking House out of your loft, hmmm? Do you know House has stopped going to therapy?"

Both Cuddy and Wilson stare at Lucas, shocked. "You… you've been checking up on House?" Cuddy sputters. "Why the hell have you been checking up on House?"

"Ever heard of Sun Tzu's Art of War? _Know thy enemy_."

A stunned silence descends upon the room. The energy and anger in the room seems to multiply with Lucas's nonchalant response. Wilson and Cuddy had absolutely no idea that Lucas was keeping tabs on House.

"I told you he'd backed off, Lucas." Cuddy agitatedly says, her hand going to her forehead. "Why couldn't you just leave it alone?"

Wilson cuts in. "Get the fuck out, Lucas. _Just get the fuck out_." The oncologist is beyond mad by now. There is an anger burning in his eyes that Cuddy has never seen before.

At this point, the raised voices and tense atmosphere is too much for Rachel, who begins to cry softly.

Cuddy picks Rachel up, and soothes her. She tries her best to speak calmly. "Lucas… Go. Just… stop. Go home. Please… I'll meet you at home."

He spins around to look at her, narrowing his eyes. "You're not coming now?"

"I have to finish this," she stresses as she gestures to her laptop. "I'll come back as soon as I do."

"You are my fiancée, Lisa. You're supposed to come home with me, not stay here with House, who doesn't even know you're here since he's sleeping!"

Despite the fact that they are talking about House, they don't glance at him. Instead, the three adults stand in the middle of the room, arms crossed and feet square on the ground as they argue.

"House is my friend!" Cuddy hisses at her fiancé. Actually, she doesn't quite know if this is Lucas in front of her. "I can stay if I want! And I will!"

Wilson steps between Cuddy and Lucas. "She asked you to leave, asshole. Just go. Or Security will escort you out."

Cuddy can hardly believe it when she actually sees Lucas push Wilson aside. The Lucas she knows would never lay a hand on anyone. He is a peacemaker, not an antagonist. And he does not look half as menacing as he does right now. It's a totally different person in front of her.

"Stay out of our affairs. I'm talking to my fiancée."

"This is the kind of guy you want to marry, Lisa? Really?" Wilson steps back in between Lucas and Cuddy, the gentleman in him trying to protect Cuddy. "I think she asked you to leave." And because Lucas is standing too close for comfort, looking particularly menacing, he shoves at Lucas's shoulder lightly to get him to step back.

Lucas snaps. He draws back his fist, ready to punch the daylights out of Wilson –

"Stop! Just stop!" Cuddy almost yells. "I am not simply _your fiancée_. I am Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine of Princeton Plainsboro! I am not just _your fiancée_. And I am here for one of my severely injured doctors, who happens to be a good friend of mine – "

"Is he_ just_ one of your friends? Or do you have feelings for him, Lisa?" Lucas's eyes are ice-cold as he spits out his every word. Jealousy seeps out of his every pore. "Would you sit in one of your staff member's rooms for the whole damn day if they're hospitalized? Or is Dr Gregory House just _special_?"

The heated argument between the three adults ends abruptly with Lucas's question. They stare at one another, dead serious; hostility, fear and uncertainty present in varying degrees in their gazes.

The silence in the room is deafening compared to the cacophony of agitated voices that filled it just moments earlier.

And slowly, the beeping and whoosh sounds of the machines come into focus. As does a weak voice.

"Get… out."

In the heat of their argument, not one of them had noticed that House had awoken. He had, in fact, woken somewhere in the middle of their argument. But they were too caught up to even notice him open his eyes, or hear his hoarse whispers.

"Get… out… Leave!" House's voice was weak. "Go!"

The monitors start to beep frantically as House, agitated and disoriented, begins panting and fighting to breathe.

Wilson and Cuddy are galvanized into action, and they rush over to House's side, both apologizing and trying to calm them down. But House refuses to let them touch him.

"Get… out…" House wheezes, "Just… go… fuck off… all…you…" He frantically claws at their hands, trying to shove them away. "Go… 'way…" In his agitation, he knocks his casted left leg against his right thigh. He keens in agony.

Thirteen and Chase rush into the room. Thirteen glances at the monitors, and immediately grabs the oxygen mask from Cuddy's hands, and presses it to House's face. House struggles to move his face away, but Thirteen grabs hold onto his chin firmly. His eyes are rolling around frantically, panic and distress evident in them.

"It's just me, Thirteen, okay? Just breathe. Breathe, House. Deep breaths."

Chase pointedly positions himself between House and Cuddy, Lucas and Wilson. He doesn't hesitate to raise his voice at them, despite the fact that two of them are technically his superiors.

"What the hell are you three doing? This is the ICU for a reason! Get out… All three of you. Get out!"

Cuddy and Wilson begin to protest, but Chase cuts them off sternly.

"You -" he points at Cuddy, " - are the dean of medicine… And you -" he jabs his finger in Wilson's face, "- are the Head of Oncology. But _I_ am House's attending, and you three are upsetting my patient, so _get the hell out_."

Still, Cuddy and Wilson are reluctant to leave. Lucas, however, leaves, slamming the sliding door shut in the process. The loud bang only serves to agitate House further, who begins struggling again.

However, Thirteen is reluctant to sedate him because of his severe concussion. It is the last resort.

"Get… fuck… out…" House tries to shout, his voice straining. "Go…'way!"

"House wants you to leave," Thirteen whips her head around and snaps at Cuddy and Wilson. Her left hand doggedly presses the oxygen mask to House's face, while her right strokes his forehead, trying to calm him down. His frantic clawing at her intruding hands are weakening as he slowly loses what meager strength he has. "_Leave_. _Now_."

Wilson makes a last-ditch attempt to get past Chase to reach his best friend. Chase gives up, and drags both Wilson and Cuddy to the door. He slams the door shut in their face, but stops just short of shutting the blinds.

Thirteen is still trying to calm House down. It is not uncommon for severely injured patients to be easily agitated, especially if they have severe concussions. And further so if they have just been through a traumatic experience, like having tonnes of rubble fall on them, trapping them. And House is now just like any other patient, disoriented and distressed at the chaos that had erupted just a few feet from him.

"House… House, listen. _Breathe_. I really don't want to sedate you, because you have a Grade Three concussion… So you have to calm down, okay? Breathe, deep breaths…" She notices House's hands frantically clawing at his right thigh. "Chase is going to give you a morphine booster, and some muscle relaxant. Just relax, okay? Breath. Come on, _deep breaths_… Everything's okay now."

Chase, muttering darkly under his breath, injects the meds into the IV port and watches House's vitals stabilize as House slowly calms down. Thirteen rearranges the blankets around him and keep her hand on his forehead, waiting for him to still; Chase checks that leads and tubes have not been disconnected, and that there are no new injuries. They wait for House's hitched breathing to slowly even out as he drifts off into sleep.

Soon, the room is quiet again. No more shouting, and no more rapid beeping alarms of machines.

Chase and Thirteen both turn to look outside the ICU, where Wilson and Cuddy are both anxiously peering in, guilt written all over their faces.

There is some talking to do.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Apologies for the wait. Have been preoccupied with exams, and I finally managed to find some time to sit down and get this out. Relatively long chapter to make up for it :) I don't really like this Cuddy I'm writing, but I find this is rather consistent to what we got in S6. But slowly, she'll come round. But of course, it's not gonna be an easy ride ahead for House & Cuddy both. Hope this chapter was worth the wait._


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7  
><strong>_Built up and trusted, _  
><em>Broken down and busted<em>

* * *

><p>"I don't know what the hell the two of you were thinking," snaps Chase as he strides towards Wilson and Cuddy. "He just underwent major surgery less than 24 hours ago. We could hear you from the nurses' station!"<p>

Cuddy and Wilson glance at each other, suitably chastised. Rachel is in Cuddy's arms, still shaken by the major argument. Lucas is nowhere to be seen.

"We just… got caught up in the spur of the moment," Wilson offers lamely. Now that he's calmed down, and that Lucas is gone, he realizes that what had just transpired was absolutely unacceptable. "I kinda lost it when Lucas revealed that he's been checking up on House."

"We both kind of lost it," Cuddy murmurs. "I had no idea he was doing that."

"That's no excuse. He's been trapped under a pile of rubble, had his insides rearranged, and his skull drilled open in the past 24 hours alone. The two of you, of all people, should know better than to have some sort of shouting match in front of him!"

"Look," Thirteen cuts in, "House being so severely injured… has probably stirred up plenty of feelings in the both of you – "

"You _paid_ us to bring him out, which is honestly, extremely insulting. Because if you had just asked, we would have done it anyway." Chase crosses his arms as he looks Wilson in the eyes, and then turns to Cuddy. "And you just… it was like he wasn't your friend anymore. And now the two of you are feeling guilty."

An awkward silence. Cuddy and Wilson are not used to being at the receiving end of lectures, much less from House's team. Usually, they're the ones trying to talk House's team out of madness, or offering advice.

And they weren't aware that their personal problems had been quite so obvious.

"I think the fact that we know all this…" Thirteen grimaces slightly, clearing her throat. "But that isn't the point we're trying to make. You guys are probably eager to make amends, especially since he's now in such a vulnerable state. It's guilt. Not that it isn't a good enough reason. But… you guys need to be in this for the long haul. Not just because he's injured, or because he nearly died."

"Again," Wilson cannot help but murmur softly to himself.

"Dr Hadley… I think you're overstepping your boundaries," Cuddy interjects warningly. "You have –"

Chase butts in, shaking his head. "No, you guys need to get this clear. There is months of recovery ahead. You guys are dealing with the emotional fallout of nearly losing your friend, and the guilt of the past year. That's why you guys lost it in there. _But such feelings will fade_. House will recover, and slowly become the ass that he will be when he finds out he has months of PT and being in a wheelchair to look forward to. And from what we've seen this year, who knows how you might – "

Thirteen decides to cut Chase off, knowing that what he's about to say is unpleasant (and definitely unfair) to Wilson and Cuddy, who have been House's friends for a long, long time. Yes, the past year was a screw-up, but there was no use harping on it anymore.

"All we're trying to say is that: _you cannot screw this up_."

Cuddy realizes with a jolt just how perceptive House's team can be. Sometimes, it's easy to forget that they spend hours with House every day, Chase and Thirteen, in particular. And that they are excellent doctors (or they wouldn't have been hired anyway). House just so often portrays them to be idiots. But they know how he works, and from how he works, they can tell how he feels. It's also easy to forget that his team has built some sort of unconventional friendship with their eccentric and prickly boss, whom they do care for.

Chase contemplates continuing to rant, but seeing the looks on Wilson and Cuddy's faces, he settles for a curt "Get your act together. No repeats of what happened just now. Or I'm banning you from his room. Do. Not. Screw. This. Up."

Wilson slowly nods, after which Cuddy does too, her lips pressed tight together.

Chase and Thirteen return to House's room again to check on him briefly before walking away. Cuddy and Wilson slip back into the room.

The room sounds remarkably quiet now, with no raised voices bouncing off the glass walls of the enclosed space. All they can hear is the machines, and House's steady, even breaths. It suddenly occurs to Wilson just how loud they had been just now.

"We just got lectured by Chase and Thirteen," he mutters distractedly as he checks House once over. House is back on the oxygen mask; they ruined any progress in recovery made post-op. He shifts House's hands onto his legs, just in case. "I never thought that day would come."

"I… we kind of deserved it," Cuddy mumbles softly as she sinks down onto the couch, and adjusts a sleeping Rachel's head on her shoulder. "What we did just now was out of line. And we call ourselves Department Heads."

Wilson sits down beside her. They both are silent for a while, listening to the reassuring beeps of the monitors.

"Did you know House stopped going for therapy?" Cuddy whispers.

"I… No, I didn't know. He goes on Wednesday nights, and for the past few weeks… Actually, I _think_ he didn't go last week. Maybe even the previous week too. I'm not sure if he was at home, or if he went out_ pretending_ to go to therapy. I didn't… I didn't probe further, and I had dinner with Sam pretty much everyday. And then he moved out, so…" Wilson closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Shouldn't have asked him to move out so soon. Nolan _told_ me he shouldn't be alone. I… I just forgot about that with the whole Sam thing."

Cuddy squeezes Wilson's forearm. She knows just exactly how he's feeling. And it is definitely not pleasant.

"I can't believe I didn't notice... I'm supposed to know things like these…"

"Wilson. You know him. He's grandmaster of hiding… You can't know everything."

"Still… I had to find out from _Lucas_, of all people."

Yeah, that definitely sucked.

_Lucas. _Just where the hell are they supposed to begin?

"I can't believe Lucas was checking up on House," Cuddy mumbles. She watches the oxygen mask rhythmically fog up with House's breaths. "And that he did play all those tricks. That was not the guy I agreed to marry."

"Lucas…" Wilson hesitates for a while, before thinking, heck it. "He's not simple, Cuddy. When we were at that conference? – "

_Yes_, Cuddy immediately thinks, _when it was unceremoniously revealed that I violated HIPAA with all that I told Lucas_.

Wilson is thinking the same thing, but he decides not to mention it. He'd already given Cuddy hell for it after the conference. Not that House knew about it. But he'd been so angry that he had confronted Cuddy when they returned to PPTH.

" - He wasn't just accidentally blurting it out, I think," Wilson says slowly. "Lucas is not _that_ situationally unaware. He was too casual. It was almost callous, his nonchalance. I think we saw proof today… He's not what he _seems_ to be."

The guilt about that mortifying incident once again rose up like bile in Cuddy. That hadn't been her finest moment. She'd violated HIPAA. That was no small matter. And she was the Dean of Medicine, for God's sake. She could have lost her job and at the very least, her professional reputation. The only reason, she knew, that House didn't pursue it, was because Mayfield was not something he wanted broadcasted to more people than necessary. And just perhaps, simply because it was her.

"Lucas shouldn't have known all that… He just asked me where House was, and then one thing led to another… and then the whole story just… He was just so good at listening."

"He's a private investigator. He's _supposed_ to draw information out like that from unsuspecting people."

Cuddy sighs. "I can't believe how blind I was…"

They trail off into silence. Wilson slouches down in the couch, and drops his head back with a _thunk_, closing his eyes.

Cuddy, on the other hand, cannot believe she didn't see just how manipulative Lucas could be. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it does seem like Lucas was trying to pry for information about House when he asked her where he was. And those tricks… Definitely underhanded and despicable. House was already barely getting by with his leg, especially since he was off the Vicodin, and those tricks could have hurt him physically. And the damage to the loft, and the flat screen TV! The damages must have run into the thousands.

But what was worst was that Lucas had actually been checking up on House, despite the fact that she had assured him that House had backed off. It was like he didn't trust her too.

And it all seemed even worse when Lucas, of all people, knew better than both her and Wilson, what kind of emotional state House was in. Had he been smirking and enjoying House's misery as he watched them slowly abandon House for their respective partners and own personal lives?

_Dammit. _

She had always prided herself on being able to read people and to understand them. Had she really been so blind over the past year, so caught up in trying to build the perfect domestic family with Lucas and Rachel that she had overlooked everything else?

And those words… Those words she yelled at him at the collapse site. So cruel. Even more so in the light of all that had just happened. Had he left therapy, disillusioned, because he felt it was futile in the face of all the changes that kept swamping him despite his best efforts to stay afloat?

After witnessing everything that had transpired just now, Cuddy is now sure that she cannot be with Lucas.

She simply cannot trust him, not after everything he'd been doing behind her back. She can't bring herself to trust Rachel with him anymore too. She doesn't know who Lucas is anymore.

"What am I going to do about Lucas?"

Wilson opens his eyes wearily. He lays his hand over hers in a show of support. "What are you thinking of doing?"

"I don't think I can be with him anymore."

Wilson sighs.

"I encouraged House to pursue you, you know. Now that you're breaking things off with Lucas, I'm supposed to be happy. Because that should mean House has a chance with you." Pausing, he continues, "I'm happy that we've seen Lucas' true colors, and that you didn't marry him first only to find out what a jerk he was after. But… I can't bring myself to be happy that you and House now technically have a chance together. Because I'm not sure if this chance or this possibility even exists now."

Of course Cuddy is hurt by what Wilson says.

But she knows that it is true. She's screwed things up too badly over the past year, and it would be naïve to think that her relationship with House will bounce back to what it was before this whole mess.

Because the one time in so many years that House has tried to change for the better, she wasn't there. Sure, Wilson screwed up too, but at least Wilson was there before Sam came into the picture. She, on the other hand, didn't give him a chance at all after he came out from Mayfield. The hallucinations and Mayfield had colored her vision, and she had distanced herself from him all year. Not only as a potential love interest, but also as a friend. Even their contact in the workplace was limited – she no longer asked him about his cases, or visited him in his office. She simply performed her duties as his boss, assigning him his cases, and getting him to do his job.

And House, now, will no doubt shutter himself off from her. That was his natural defense mechanism. After all that has transpired between the both of them, it's sure to come out in its full glory. She isn't even sure if she can _reach_ him anymore. She has no idea how to define their relationship anymore – everything has to be rewritten, and redefined on a clean new slate.

_If _he even gives her a blank new slate to work with.

_What a mess. _

"Wilson…" she says softly, "I have to make things right."

"Yeah, you do. But it won't be easy. This is House you're talking about."

"I think… I do love him."

Wilson casts a sidelong glance at her. "What makes you say that?"

"Seeing him down there with Hanna… It was a totally different side of him that I'd forgotten. You were right. I never gave him a chance after he hallucinated and went to Mayfield."

Wilson runs his left hand through his hair. "You can't just tell House that you love him now, Cuddy. It just doesn't work that way. You can't practically ignore him for one whole year then expect to go up to him and say that you love him."

"I… I know." Cuddy bites her lip and stares down at her lap. "Wish it was that easy."

"I think the fact that this is House makes it all the more... _complex_. We both have a long way to go."

"Yeah," Cuddy breathes, "Yeah, I know."

_Especially me. _

"Now what?"

Cuddy said softly, barely daring to hope. "We try again. And hopefully we'll get a second chance. And we don't screw up."

* * *

><p>When Cuddy reaches home that night, she finds Lucas seated on her couch, waiting for her. He looks expectantly at her, but she ignores him and heads to Rachel's room.<p>

She takes her time settling Rachel for bedtime. Rachel is still sleepy, so Cuddy takes her time getting Rachel into her pajamas, and then tucking her in.

She walks slowly out to the living room, where Lucas is still seated on the couch. He isn't doing anything. He's just sitting there, and waiting for her.

"Lisa… About just now… I'm sorry. It's just been a bad day and – "

"I don't want to hear it, Lucas."

"Come on, Lisa. It was just a moment's – "

"You lied to me. You played those horrible tricks on House and Wilson. You could have hurt House! And the damage to the loft must have been exorbitant! I told you to leave it."

"You don't know House, he won't just leave you alone like that. Did you see what he was like when Wilson wanted to leave?" Lucas takes her hand into his, desperate to make her see his point. "This is the same thing. _This is House_. He wasn't going to just let it go –"

Cuddy pointedly pulls her hand away, and inches away from him. "So you thought that was a good enough excuse to check up on him?"

"I told you – "

"And what about the fact that you practically _ordered_ me to come home with you? I'm your fiancée, but you can't just drag or order me around… You should know me better than that."

"I – "

"And the fact that you nearly punched Wilson? In _my_ hospital? In front of my staff? In front of a severely injured patient?"

"I lost control…"

"I don't know who you are anymore, Lucas. What I saw today…" she shakes her head, "Who I saw in the hospital… That wasn't the man I agreed to marry."

"What do you want me to do, Lisa? I've already apologized. All I did was to protect our relationship. Protect us, from House," Lucas says earnestly. "You too, were tired of all his shenanigans. You told me that."

Cuddy gets a sinking feeling that Lucas doesn't think he has done wrong at all. And that just reaffirms her desire to break things off with him. How can he not think that he'd done wrong? That the ends – protecting their relationship, and keeping her by his side – justified the means?

"Maybe we haven't been together long enough to fully understand each other," Cuddy says softly. "Maybe getting married now isn't a great idea. We've only dated for a year."

Going by the utter silence that ensues, Lucas is stunned.

"Are you breaking off our engagement?" asks Lucas, rather incredulously. "For real?"

"I think I misjudged you, and that we – "

"_I _was the one who offered you comfort when you most needed it! And_ I_ am the one who can offer you a stable and loving family," Lucas argues back, pointing at himself for emphasis. "_I _can be the dad Rachel needs. Isn't that what you want?"

"Lucas, I…"

"This is about House, isn't it? I told you. I told you he was toxic to our relationship, and that he would try and win you back. I told you to be wary of him! You agreed with me!"

"Lucas!" Cuddy is stunned at the venom in Lucas's usually mild tone of voice. "This has nothing to do with House!"

"I am the one who can give you what House can't. _You chose me._ Have you forgotten that?"

Cuddy cannot bring herself to give him an answer, because he is right. She ran into his arms because she was frightened, and he did give her the comfort and stability that she so craved, but could not find in House. She bites her lips, and drops her gaze, suddenly unable to face him.

Lucas suddenly seems to deflate. "Or was I just his proxy?"

The deafening silence that ensues is all the confirmation he needs.

"So… I was just a tool? For what? For you to get your mind off House? For you to give Rachel the complete family that she needs?"

"No! Lucas, no." Cuddy is horrified that he even thinks that of her. What's worse is that she doesn't know if it's true. "It's just… I don't know. I thought you were everything I needed. And you were. You were, until I saw what happened just now. I can't believe you did all that."

Lucas doesn't seem to believe her. She doesn't quite know if she believes herself.

"I don't know what you want, Lisa. One moment, you are telling House to back off, and lying to him that we've broken up so that he'll back off. Another moment, you're telling me that this relationship can't work, because of how I've been trying to protect our family?"

Cuddy takes a deep breath. For the whole year, she's been pushing away her doubts about this relationship, instead choosing to take it at face value.

But now, she knows what she wants.

"I'm sorry, Lucas."

"So that's it?" he implores, "We're done?"

"I'm sorry."

"So you're going to go running back to House now."

"No. No. I – " _As if it's that easy. I wish it was that easy. _

"But we're done."

She sighs. There is no use trying to justify herself anymore.

"We're done…" she confirms. "I'm sorry."

Lucas shakes his head. He stands up slowly from the couch, and walks towards the door. "I'll come get my stuff tomorrow," he says softly, not looking at her. Then at the door, he stops. "I really do love you, Lisa. That's why I did all that."

"I know. But that doesn't make it right."

He nods curtly, then walks into the dark night without saying goodbye.

Cuddy is left sitting alone, on her couch. She got engaged, and broke it off in less than a week. Coupled with the crane collapse, and the ensuing mayhem… What a week. She doesn't know how much time passes. She just sits there and stares into space, trying to absorb and process everything that had just happened in the span of three days.

Her cellphone rings. It's Wilson.

_"Cuddy? Everything alright?"_ He knew she was coming home to Lucas. Good ol' Wilson, checking up on her. _"He didn't get violent or anything?"_

"No," she says softly. "But I broke it off."

A second of silence. _"Are you okay?"_

"Other than the fact that I feel like a bitch? I'm just tired. It's been a crazy few days."

"_Okay. Let me know if he causes any trouble?" _

"I will, Wilson. Stop worrying." He has enough to worry about. She knows he must feel terrible.

"_You did the right thing. For you and Rachel. Don't dwell too much on it." _

"I know."

"_Get some rest, Cuddy."_

"You too, Wilson."

She lugs herself to her empty bed. It seems so big now that there isn't another person sharing it with her.

She picks Rachel up from her crib, and lies next to her on the bed. She curls her body around Rachel's, placing a hand on her daughter's rising and falling chest. A few tears escape from her eyes at how once again, her personal life has just fallen apart.

She dreams of being stuck underground in darkness, all alone with no comfort, her own words haunting her.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Over 20 reviews for the last chapter! Oh my. Thanks so much guys. Reviews are really encouraging. My exams are finally hitting the home stretch (2 more papers, less than a week!). This chapter was extraordinarily difficult to write - imagining the Cuddy/Lucas break-up was... gahhh. Not my favourite chapter, but a necessary one for things to progress. _In case you guys missed it, I also wrote a House/Rachel one-shot set in the future called This Place. A _Happy Thanksgiving to American readers! _


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8  
><strong>_No one can find the rewind button_

* * *

><p>Wilson walks into House's room with sandwiches and salads. Blythe, having followed him into work earlier in the morning, is seated on the couch, knitting something as she sits by her son's bedside.<p>

"I brought us lunch, Blythe."

Blythe looks up from her knitting, and pats the seat next to her, signaling for Wilson to sit down. Of course he would know that she would be reluctant to leave Greg's side. And he would want to spend more time with House too. She barely managed to persuade him to work in his office instead of in Greg's room. Still, he'd been popping in every one to two hours.

"Greg has been drifting in and out of consciousness. And he hasn't touched breakfast and lunch. Is that normal?"

"We had a… setback yesterday," he grimaces, feeling slightly guilty, like a little boy who broke a prized vase because he had been doing something he shouldn't have been doing. He didn't really intend to tell Blythe that one had occurred, but a mother's instinct was formidable. "But other than that, this is the body's way of healing itself," he changes the subject quickly. "There is only so much that medicine can do."

"Okay." Relief washes over Blythe's face. "That's good then."

Wilson passes her the chicken sandwich, and they eat in a comfortable silence. Catching sight of the lump of knitting that Blythe was just working on earlier, Wilson asks, "What are you knitting?"

"Oh, this." Blythe picks it up, and passes it to Wilson."A beanie for Greg."

Her expression turns wistful. "Greg was about nine when he had this really awful haircut. He says the barber wasn't paying attention, but it was really because he kept moving his head as he read his book. And the young boy who cut his hair was really the barber's apprentice." She chuckles softly at the memory, "He was really upset, and refused to come out of his room. So I knit him a beanie. He only came out of the room only when he was wearing the beanie." After a slight pause, she adds dryly, "He doesn't have to comb his hair this when he wears one."

Wilson grins. "Perfect for him."

House's non-existent grooming habits are well known in the hospital. Wilson isn't even sure if he combs his hair in the morning; House sometimes walks into PPTH looking like he got straight out of bed. Years ago, Wilson used to launch sneak attacks on him with a comb - he persisted for two weeks before giving up.

Blythe smiles back, exchanging a knowing glance with Wilson, knowing quite well her son's indifference about his appearance. It exasperates her. She hates that scruff of his, and wishes he would actually iron his shirts, but he still looks ruggedly handsome in her eyes no matter what.

But her smile fades as she looks at her son, lying in the hospital bed. "He's definitely going to complain about his hair later," she says sadly. "The beanie will come in handy."

There is just a heartbeat of silence before Blythe forces a smile onto her face.

"So how have you been, James?"

Wilson gets the feeling that House's legendary skills of evasion and deflection were passed down from mother to son.

"I'm fine," he shrugs, "still putting up a good fight against the Number 1 killer in the world."

Blythe smiles, for real, at him. "I say this every time I meet you, but you are very brave, James. You're a wonderful doctor. Oncology is not a specialty for the faint-hearted."

"It _is_ tough."

"But you are doing good work."

A lopsided smile from Wilson. "I'd like to believe that."

Blythe nods, then turns to look at her son, putting her sandwich down. "It's this bravery that allows you to be friends with Greg," she says quietly, "And it's only because you're his friend that I don't have to worry about him all the time."

"Blythe…"

"How many times has he been hospitalized now…?"

"Five, in the past six years." The number comes rather _too_ easily to Wilson. No hesitation at all in his response.

"See…" she glances at him, and smiles reassuringly. "You are a good friend. You were always there."

"I wasn't there during the infarction… And that bus crash…"

Blythe frowns, and places her hand over Wilson's. "You were on your honeymoon… And that bus crash, your girlfriend was hurt too. It's understandable that you couldn't be there."

Wilson swallows hard, recalling the months after Amber's death he'd spent away from House. He hadn't called House once during those two months, instead choosing to stay away. He hadn't even said thank you.

He feels this strong urge to tell Blythe that he really isn't the best of friends, and that she really shouldn't think so highly of him. That he's flawed too, and definitely not as perfect as she thinks he is.

Surely she would have noticed that he hadn't been around House after the bus crash? She had come to visit a week after the crash, after finding out from Cuddy that her son was uncontactable because he had been hospitalized. She would have noticed that he didn't call her, as he usually did, at all? Or that he didn't visit at all?

"Blythe… I should have been there…"

Blythe cuts him off. "Greg said that your girlfriend was in the bus crash too. When I asked where you were, he said you were seeing to her funeral arrangements, and were with…"

"Amber," Wilson supplies. "Her name was Amber."

"He said you were with Amber's parents."

Wilson frowns. Both he and House had never really talked about that period of time. _Post-Amber_. They'd resumed their friendship, choosing to treat it like nothing had happened at all. Some would say that was unhealthy… but it worked for them. That was all that mattered.

"No… I wasn't –"

But Blythe continues, "And you took such good care of him during his recovery in the weeks that followed anyway. Each time I called to talk to him, and asked to talk to you, he said you were fussing about in the kitchen, or at work, or had run out to run some errands –"

A heavy weight starts to pool at the bottom of Wilson's stomach, and he starts to feel sick.

"- You were of course extremely busy juggling work and everything else, so I never insisted on talking to you – it would only take up more of your time."

Wilson can almost feel the blood drain from his face as what Blythe has said hits him square in the gut.

_What the hell? _

That was not what happened at all. It was Cuddy, Chase and Cameron who were taking care of House after the whole fiasco. Wilson was nursing his broken, grief-stricken heart, and had left Princeton as quickly as possible.

Without a goodbye.

And _that_ was what House told his mom?

Wilson wonders just how much Blythe really knows about what goes on in her son's life. Perhaps that's why, while House was in Mayfield, she accepted Wilson's obviously inadequate explanations for why House hadn't been around for those few weeks. House would never have wanted his mother to find out that he'd been in a psychiatric hospital.

And House… How could House tell his mom all that when Wilson had just left, without even looking back? How could House continue to paint such a perfect picture of him after what he'd asked of House in order to save Amber?

Wilson wonders just what kinds of things House are hiding. How many lies, or cover-ups, has House fed to the different people in his life? And to do what – protect himself? Keep prying people out?

He has to ask this question. "Did House tell you that he'd been in a coma?"

Blythe nods. "Dr Cuddy told me it was because he'd fractured his skull in the bus crash, which caused a brain bleed."

Wilson felt the pool of guilt at the bottom of his stomach turn ice-cold, and radiate to his very fingertips. So House never told his mom what Wilson had asked him to do. And evidently, he'd managed to persuade Cuddy to not say anything. And Cuddy, in turn, had probably instructed House's team to keep it a secret too.

_Dammit._ Dammit dammit dammit.

House is rude, abrasive and misanthropic. Generate a whole list of negative adjectives, and most of them would probably apply to him.

What he possesses, though, is loyalty. Unwavering loyalty to the people whom he feels actually deserve it.

Wilson closes his eyes, and exhales heavily, dropping his head into his hands. More than anything else, he would like to confess everything to Blythe – that he hasn't been the best friend to House in the past month, that he really wasn't there after the deep brain stimulation.

But he knows that House wouldn't want his mom to know. Whether House is trying to shield his mother from the unpleasantries of his life here in Princeton, or whether House just doesn't want his mom to meddle… Wilson will never know. But all he can do is respect House's wishes, and continue keeping whatever secrets House has kept from his mother.

He's certain that House wouldn't want Blythe to know that his best friend paid his team to bring him out. Or that Dr Cuddy, another close friend, had practically stopped her friendship with House in its tracks. Or that he'd kicked House out of the loft because he had rekindled things with his ex-wife.

"I…" He smiles weakly at Blythe. It turns out more like a grimace. Vomiting would come to him more naturally right now. "I… I try my best."

"That's all that matters, isn't it?" Blythe pats his hand reassuringly. She can tell he looks stricken, but she attributes it to mortification at all the praise she has heaped on him, or just plain worry for Greg.

They are interrupted by Chase coming in to perform his hourly check on House.

Chase nods a pleasant greeting to Blythe. His reaction to Wilson, however, is a lot chillier, almost curt. Wilson cringes inwardly as he recalls their conversation the day before.

As Chase fiddles with the monitors and tubes, House stirs.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Blythe croons. "How are you feeling?"

House blinks lethargically, his eyes sweeping across the room as he tries to orientate himself. "Tired."

"Any pain?" Chase asks, even though House is on enough meds to knock out an elephant.

"No…" House's voice is gravelly and hoarse. "Thirsty."

Wilson immediately picks up the cup of ice-chips, and feeds a few to House. For once, House doesn't insist on doing things himself, or complain about being treated as an invalid. Instead, his eyes are drooping, and he's ready to nod off into sleep again despite Chase's fiddling and adjustments.

Wilson would actually much rather House kick up and fuss and be a difficult patient.

House lethargically lifts his right arm off the bed, reaching up to his head. He probes almost curiously at the surgical site, just barely, before Chase pulls his hand away, admonishing, "Don't do that."

"Itches," he slurs, somewhere between sleep and waking. He raises his left arm, but before he can bring it to his head, Wilson intercepts it and sets it back down on the bed.

"Don't touch, House."

"Itches," House insists. "_Itches_."

He struggles to lift his arms, but against the firm, but gentle grips of both Chase and Wilson, it is futile.

"Greg… Be good," Blythe casts a worried look at Wilson and Chase. "Is this normal?"

Wilson snaps on a pair of gloves, and examines the surgical site. It looks fine, with no sign of infection. As he probes, he exerts the slightest pressure around the wound. Not directly on the site, but around it.

"Yes," House grinds out, almost petulantly. "Do."

As paradoxical as it may seem, only House would be able to sound both like a child asking for something and an adult giving an imperious order.

At the same time. In two words.

Wilson's nostrils flare. "Yes, master."

House, in reply, gives a small chuff.

Wilson continues to exert the gentlest of pressure at the surrounding area of the surgical site. It alleviates the itching somewhat, and it isn't long till House stops struggling, and drifts off into sleep again.

As much as Wilson would like to make things right with House again, he knows this isn't the time to do it. The only thing he can do is make sure House is being properly taken care of, and is comfortable. He sighs, and sits back down next to Blythe, reassuring her that whatever just happened is perfectly normal.

Chase, seemingly satisfied with the way Wilson handled it, seems to soften slightly towards him. He smiles slightly before leaving the room.

* * *

><p>Cuddy visits mid-afternoon, having found a slight lull in her schedule to finally pop in. Blythe is still there, but is dozing lightly on the couch.<p>

Walking out, Cuddy grabs a light blanket from the nearest supply closet, and she covers Blythe with it. Blythe doesn't even stir.

She turns to check on House. He has the same peaceful look as his mother when he's sleeping – deep lines smoothed out, face slack in the absence of tension. She hesitantly reaches out, and runs her fingers through his hair lightly. It's longer now, growing out from the buzz cut he came back from Mayfield with.

She hated the short hair. It was just a reminder of what he had gone through, what he had put her through, and where he had been. Every single time she saw it, it was a stark reminder that he'd been to Mayfield.

What it should have reminded her of was how fragile he could be. He'd been through a lot in the past few years – shootings, ketamine, bus crash, Amber, Kutner's suicide… Any other person would have gone mad for real by then. Only he seemed to escape unscathed each time.

Key word: _seemed_.

Then Mayfield had proved all of that wrong. The effects of the traumatic events had obviously accumulated in him, like a poisonous toxin that was slowly but surely taking its toll on his soul. Kutner's suicide, out of the blue and wholly unexpected, had been the final blow. It broke him – he felt responsible for not knowing. Only Gregory House would feel responsible for that.

It all seems so obvious now that she has the benefit of hindsight. At that time, it was easier to focus on the fact that he'd announced to the whole hospital that they'd slept together, and that he'd called Rachel a _bastard child_. Oh, and the fact that he'd hallucinated for a whole night.

It was so easy to attribute everything to the Vicodin. She'd forgotten the emotional baggage he was carrying from the past few years and that they could have contributed to his… _episode_.

House carries the weight of the world on his shoulders – each failure, each mistake he makes, he takes upon himself, burying it somewhere deep inside him, where it never sees the light of day. It's deadweight. Deadweight that no one should have to carry.

How are they supposed to tell him that once again, he'd failed to save his patient? That Hanna died en-route to the hospital?

Despite the fact that the fat embolism was a complication even the most skilled of doctors could not prevent, House won't see it that way.

He will see it as yet another failure chalked up. He will berate himself for making the wrong decision. For letting himself be swayed by her harsh words. And he'll know that his feelings for her, and his emotional reaction to her horrible words, and the resulting amputation that he'd finally convinced Hanna to undergo, had ultimately cost Hanna, his patient, her life.

That would be an even bigger mess. He would never be able to forgive himself for that.

Cuddy sinks down onto the bed, perching herself on the edge. She stares at House for a long time.

Yeah, what a mess they're in.

They're currently in the lull of the storm. House being unconscious is giving them the much needed time to regroup, rethink and reconsider. Does she truly love him? Is a relationship with him even possible after all that has happened? Are they supposed to tell him that Hanna died? Will he let them in again? Has she hurt him irrevocably with her unwillingness to wait for him, and give him a chance? What is she going to do? How is she going to make it up to him? Is it even possible to?

_Where do they go from here? _

There are so many uncertainties, so many questions, none of which they have the answers to. The only person who can give them a direction and an answer is currently lying in a hospital bed - battered, broken and vulnerable.

She is terrified of what might come. _Terrified_, for lack of a better word. Uncertainty and Lisa Cuddy just do not mix.

She stands up slowly, adjusting her clothes. She casts one more look back at House before walking out back towards her hospital - familiar territory that she knows she has control over.

She is oblivious to the fact that House is awake, but feigning sleep in order to avoid her.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I am so sorry for the delay - real life is just being such a chore. A transition chapter here, with some insight into what I imagine House's relationship with his mom to be. I know this fic is not really Huddy-centered so far, but I feel that post Season 6 there is much to be fixed in House's friendship with Wilson as well. More Huddy will come, really. It's just going to be a long, bumpy ride. After all, things are never simple with these characters. Next chapter, the good stuff begins: conversations between House/Cuddy, and House/Wilson. _


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9  
><strong>_Blind_

* * *

><p>Wilson walks into House's room at the end of the day, intending to stay for around an hour. It's been a long, dreary day, and all he wants is some time alone with his friend. He now kinda gets why House likes hanging around in the rooms of coma patients. It's so wrong, but there is a kind of peace that cannot be found elsewhere in the bustling hospital.<p>

A nurse exits the room with an untouched dinner tray. She offers him a sympathetic glance, and he returns with a hopeful – if there's ever such a way of describing it – grimace of his own.

When he walks in, he takes one look at House, and he grins.

"I know you're awake, House."

House reluctantly opens his eyes with a dramatic sigh.

"Any reason you're pretending to be asleep?"

House blinks at the ceiling before shrugging. The victorious feeling in Wilson starts to wilt.

"You gave us all quite a scare," he ventures tentatively. "How are you feeling?"

House shrugs, but acquiesces with a question of his own. "How bad?"

"Bad enough."

"Feels that way."

"Neuro check."

"Wilson…" House tries to whine, but he comes off sounding winded, especially since it tapers off into a weak cough. He accepts the water that Wilson passes to him.

"This wasn't just some bang of the head, House. You had a skull fracture. A grade three concussion. A bleed, to boot." He adds firmly in that no-nonsense tone he reserves for only a certain childish genius diagnostician best friend, "_Neuro check._"

House only turns away Wilson, and closes his eyes again. Wilson sighs, already exasperated, but he stopped himself from lapsing into a lecture. House is probably feeling way more crappy than usual, thus the greater lack of cooperation than usual. "It's me, or I get Foreman up here."

House pinches his lips together, and almost childishly gives in, sulkily turning his head towards Wilson. He winces as he moves, and he reaches up clumsily again towards the tubes and bandages.

Wilson smacks his hand away lightly, and in a repeat of what happened earlier in the day, says, "Don't touch."

"It hurts."

"Of course it hurts. You have a whole laundry list of injuries. So don't move."

They run through the gamut of exercises, and Wilson can already see by the end of the neuro check that House is tiring. He's just about to ask House to continue resting when House slowly extends his hand.

He extends it _imperiously_, to be exact, gesturing for the chart.

Knowing there's no stopping House, Wilson grabs the chart, and passes it to House, who clumsily holds it up to read. Wilson surreptitiously watches as House digests the information on the chart. He can see the exact moment that House realizes what exactly recovery entails for the next few weeks, and months. There is a flicker of… _something_ in House's eyes before he seems to clam up, tossing the chart to the foot of the bed just _too _carelessly.

"Chase needs to work on his handwriting."

House-speak for _I don't want to discuss this. _

Wilson persists.

"House…"

"Where's my mom?" House cuts Wilson off as he presses the controls, raising the head of his bed.

"She's returned to the loft for some rest."

The look of relief on House's face is unmistakable. As Wilson catches sight of it, he remembers how perplexed he was earlier at House's relationship with Blythe when he realized House had kept so much from her.

One thing's for sure, it's bordering on screwed-up.

But who is he to comment, when his own relationship with House is bordering on dysfunctional? Somehow, despite all that has come between them – normal friendships would have fallen apart by now – they always somehow end up together again. Overlooking each other's faults, forgiving (or just forgetting) each other's misdeeds,_ choosing_ to be each other's friend.

Wilson knows that people say it's weird that a person like him would be friends with House. He's perceived to be the good one, and often, he is seen as _too _good for House. But he knows he too, is deeply flawed – and House is the only person he's comfortable enough with to be who he really is. House seems to be the only person who can bring color to Wilson's dull, dull life as an oncologist with a tendency for unhealthy relationships with women.

So yeah, he has to do something. He needs to get their friendship back to whatever it was before this whole mess. He doesn't even know when it all started, when it started to go all downhill.

"House…" Wilson hesitates, but decides to just get it out of the way. "I owe you an apology."

Almost instantly, House stiffens. He stops the mechanical movement of the bed, leaving it in an awkward half-up-half-down position that is not quite letting him sit upright, nor letting him lie comfortably. He doesn't say anything, only staring at the right corner of the white ceiling.

As Wilson speaks, his voice seems far too loud, far too grating in the heavy silence.

"I shouldn't have asked you to move out. I should have remembered that you needed to stay with me, as Nolan said, so that I could help you stay clean… And I just let – "

"I don't need you to help me do anything," House sullenly replies, still pointedly not looking at Wilson. "I can do it on my own."

"House…"

"I was fine after I moved out. I don't need your help. I'm fine on my own."

"I shouldn't have thrown you into the deep end for Sam… I might have overlooked some things…"

"Your loft, your money, your decision."

"House…" The familiar feeling of exasperation that seems to permeate his conversations with House makes its appearance. "I'm trying to apologize here. Please at least give me a chance to do so."

"Nothing to apologize for."

"No... Just - "

"You did what you thought was necessary."

"House._ Please." _

There is only the sound of machines beeping in the room as Wilson waits with bated breath for House to give him a chance to try and make things as right as they can be.

House turns to look at Wilson, an inscrutable look on his face. "Does it look like I can go anywhere?"

That's the closest Wilson's going to get to a go-ahead.

"I shouldn't have asked you to leave the loft so soon… And I shouldn't have paid your team to bring you out – that was insensitive of me."

To his immense surprise, House nods. "Okay."

Wilson is incredulous. "That's it? _Okay_? That's all you have to say?"

House throws Wilson a scathing look. "What else am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to demand that you get on your knees to apologize to me?"

House pokes at the bed's controls, raising the head of the bed to a more comfortable position. He pointedly keeps his gaze on the remote control, as though it's infinitely more interesting than the human being standing bewildered in front of him.

Wilson has a sneaking suspicion that he's not getting the entire picture. "And… I want you to move back in with me."

"You want me to move back with you," House repeats very slowly, processing the idea.

Wilson nods as he sits down in the chair. He pours out another cup of water, and offers it to House. House doesn't take it.

"No."

Wilson puts down the cup of water slowly, treading carefully. These are dangerous waters. One wrong move, and they're going down.

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

Wilson counts to ten in his head. This is going to be one of_ those _conversations. "Because… if you haven't realized, you are not going to be able to cope for at the very least, the next two months."

"I don't need your help. I'm fine on my own."

"You don't _need_ it, or don't _want_ it?"

A silence that all but tells Wilson the answer. House is not stupid; he of all people should know what the recovery process is going to entail.

He sighs, and rubs at the back of his neck. "I've already apologized, House."

House glowers right back at him despite his evident exhaustion. "I'm more mature than that."

"You don't seem like it right now."

"Wouldn't Sam find me a pest?" House asks mockingly. "I hate her, remember?"

"She'll understand."

"Yeah, she's been real understanding."

Wilson doesn't miss the heavy sarcasm lacing every word. It's House's way of expressing his uncertainty.

"It doesn't matter anyway, because you're moving in even if she doesn't like it."

House regards Wilson with an odd look. "Standing up to the harpy. That's new."

Wilson ignores that statement and its implications. "House… Come on."

With some difficulty, House reaches for the television remote, and turns the TV on. Most obnoxiously, he increases the volume until it is just short of deafening. Outside in the hospital hallways, people peer into the room at the commotion.

"_House_!"

"What?" House yells over the irritating jangle of some advertisement playing on the screen. "Are you saying something?"

"House…" Wilson says in a warning tone, folding his arms. "Stop it."

"_What_?"

Despite the dramatics, Wilson can see the lines of pain around House's eyes deepen as the deafening noise from the TV jars his concussed brain.

"_Ass_." Gritting his teeth, Wilson grabs the remote. House is still too weak to put up any considerable fight. Wilson switches off the TV, and sets the remote down. "Act like an adult, House."

Silence.

"Please… House. I made some mistakes in the past few weeks. And maybe in the past few years… But I'm your best friend. You just need to give me a chance to make it up to you. A single chance."

House keeps his eyes down, pointedly not looking at Wilson. He fidgets, fingering the hospital blanket and rolling the nasal cannula tubing in his fingers. Wilson doesn't know how long it is before House reaches out abruptly, groping around the bedside table for the television remote. He switches the TV back on – normal volume this time. He stares intensely at the TV, a hundred percent focus on the newscaster delivering the evening news.

Bewildered, and recognizing the subtle signs of House tiring, Wilson takes his cue, and watches the news with similar intensity. He tries his best to prevent himself from taking sidelong glances at House.

It comes in the middle of a sports commentary. It's so soft that Wilson almost doesn't think he hears it.

"I'm fine on my own, Wilson."

Wilson keeps his eyes trained on the TV. "I know," he replies softly. "But I don't want you to be on your own."

Together, they look at the moving images on the television. Not really watching, just looking. Wilson can almost feel the uncertainty radiating off of House – he's daring Wilson to make a huge fuss and emotionalize about this. But Wilson knows House's game well – so yes, this sports commentary is highly interesting, and commands all of his attention at the moment.

"You're such a sap," House says, his voice slurring with exhaustion.

By the time Wilson dares to sneak a peek, House is fast asleep – his head turned slightly towards Wilson, remote grasped loosely in his hand. Wilson switches off the television, draws the blankets up around House, and settles down to sit for just a while more before leaving for the night.

* * *

><p>As the sun rises over Princeton, PPTH awakens from its slumber, like a sleeping giant. Food carts delivering breakfast make their way through the corridors. Nurses change shifts, and morning rounds are conducted. Visitors start streaming in the hospital doors as visiting hours begin, and a small queue even forms outside the free clinic. The silence that was interrupted only by codes in the middle of the night dissipates as the hustle and bustle increases while the hospital gains steam, gearing itself up for yet another day of treating illnesses and saving lives.<p>

Cuddy finds herself early in her office. Her home, now devoid of any Lucas, seemed far too empty. It was a stroke of luck that Marina had turned up early, allowing her to escape the painfully bare reality. The extra time she now has – Lucas was always trying to sneak morning sex in – is great, but there is now no one making breakfast or drinking coffee or reading the newspapers in her dining room.

It's just her and Rachel now.

And to be honest, and as preposterous as it might seem in the wake of what she's learnt about Lucas, it's lonely. There were only three of them to begin with, and now there are only two.

Cuddy finds herself making her way towards House's room, and before she knows it, she's at the ICU nurses' station, looking through their notes for the night. More specifically, checking how House's night went. She knows he's woken up – Wilson sent her a hasty message yesterday. But it had been too late for her to go see him – she had already been on her way home. She's not sure if she could even face him anyway.

Expecting him to be still asleep, she enters his room quietly, just wanting to sit by his bed alone.

House is awake though, his bed upright and his face blank as he stares at some indeterminate corner of the room; he turns to look at who has entered his room.

Their gazes meet, and Cuddy can see his eyes widen just so slightly in surprise. Then it disappears as he visibly steels himself. She swallows hard, and stops right in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do.

When had it become this awkward between them?

Now, the absence of their friendship has left a gaping hole in her. It's like the flimsy band-aid that covered it has been ripped off, exposing the ugly wound to all. And it hurts.

To her greater disappointment, he turns away from her without a word.

"House…" Her voice cracks slightly.

His response is to start reclining his bed, as though he's about to go to sleep.

"House, please."

He closes his eyes, and still does not respond. She walks over, and sits down on the chair next to his bed. They both know that she's not going to leave. She has no plan for what she's going to say or do. She can only hope that whatever comes out of her mouth will be right.

He exhales heavily, and opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling.

"I have a concussion, skull fracture and my brain bled for the second time in my life. My vision is blurry, I have a headache, and my right leg hurts," he says blandly, "I would really like to sleep now, Dr Cuddy. Or would you like to conduct a neuro check?"

It's just _wrong f_or him to describe so candidly how he's hurting. He never admits it, not when he's in the throes of withdrawal, or when his leg is killing him. He's doing this only because he really doesn't want to talk to her.

She blanches as she realizes how much he's actually trying to avoid her.

"I'm not here as your doctor," she says softly. "I – "

"You're my boss."

She frowns at the inscrutable tone of his voice. "Your friend," she corrects.

House only shrugs his reply, as if saying _okay_.

"How are you feeling? Any pain?" It comes out more desperately that she wants it to be. They can't even hold a conversation now.

He blinks. "Fine."

He seems content to let the awkwardness linger in the air. She, on the other hand, can barely breathe. She slumps in her seat, wishing for someone to page her right now. She wants so much to make things right, but she also wants to escape from this all. She wants to fast-forward past this difficult part, and head straight to the happily ever after, where things can go back to some semblance of normal.

"What I said that night… at the collapse site… I shouldn't have - "

"It was necessary."

"No, I shouldn't have said all that. I was angry, and I wasn't thinking. I was too harsh, and – "

"You were right."

Her heart starts to beat a little faster at the thought that he's actually agreeing with her. She tentatively reaches out to him, and relaxes slightly when he doesn't shrug off her hand on his forearm.

"No – "

"It saved Hanna's life. You were right. I wasn't objective."

She sucks in a deep breath as she recalls that he doesn't know Hanna's dead. To him, what she said there in the spur of the moment had saved Hanna's life. It didn't matter if it had been unfair or hurtful to him.

_How can she tell him that Hanna is dead? _

"What I said was untrue. I was mad, House, and I didn't know what I was saying – My words were – "

"You don't get to regret them. They were what you felt. Your words were true."

"Maybe they were at that time," she says desperately, "But they're not true anymore. I just wanted you to save her, and to do the right thing."

"It doesn't matter." He turns away from her, shutting down. She feels him squirm slightly away from her touch, hinting at her to let him go and not touch him. With a pang of hurt, she removes her hand from his forearm.

"Lucas is gone," she blurts out, "I ended it."

She has never felt so inarticulate in her life. She's used to dealing with difficult patients, wrestling with stubborn insurance company bullies, and making impressive impromptu speeches that dazzle donors. But here, now, she's grasping at straws and shooting blind, trying anything to get him back. She's terrified that she's lost him forever. Physically, he's still here. But from what she's seeing now, he's never been more closed off.

Her sudden revelation succeeds in getting the biggest reaction from him so far.

"Why?"

"He… he wasn't who I thought he was. Those pranks…"

A slight nod from House. She can't tell if it's agreement or… something else.

"And he was checking up on you."

House blinks at her. "Oh."

It's not the reaction she's looking for. He's a private man, and being investigated should not sit well with him. He's supposed to blow up, feel angry, and feel wronged. He's supposed to have a stronger reaction than Wilson's.

"We had a huge fight about it… Wilson too. We were here, and arguing in front of you… Chase and Thirteen chased us out."

"Don't 'member," House closes his eyes again, obviously tiring. "Good for you."

"House… I just want – can we start over?"

He doesn't answer. It seems like he's falling asleep. But she doesn't want him to. She needs to get it out now, before she loses the courage to make things right.

She exhales heavily, and summons up the courage to say it.

"I – I love you. I wish I didn't, but I can't help it."

The stunned look on his face says it all; he is speechless.

"The past year… I wasn't fair to you. I never gave you a chance. You came back from Mayfield, and I didn't give you a chance at all. I thought I could find my happiness with Lucas, and I just wanted you to not mess things up for me. But now, after seeing you down there with Hanna… After what I said, after you nearly died _again_… I realize that maybe I want you in my life."

She hopes desperately that she's getting through to him.

"I just want us to go back to whatever we were before this whole… mess. I just need to know if we can work. "

Based on what he's done – how fiercely he tried to break her and Lucas up, and to try and win her over – she expects him to agree, and for them to fall back easily together again. After all, he's been trying to have her accept him for the past few months right? Now, it's finally possible. It_ should_ be simple, really. And she needs him to agree. Because after all this turmoil, she just really wants to be with someone she is sure she loves, and for it all to die down and stop.

"There is no us."

She can remember the exact moment she said that to him outside his apartment. The lack of emotion in his voice now is frightening. He's always been good at hiding his emotions and reactions, but she's always prided herself on being able to catch the split-second moment where his façade slips to reveal his true emotion.

But now, there's nothing.

"House… _I love you_."

"Words don't matter. Actions do."

His words linger in the air, their implications resounding in the silence. She has no answer to that. She can only stare at him, shell-shocked at how this is going. Almost instantly, she understands. There is no simple solution to this. She was way too naïve, expecting him to run into her arms like a lovesick man _finally_ getting his chance.

But she has irrevocably hurt him over the past year. She alienated him and pushed him away. How can she expect things to magically be okay again with just a few spoken words, when all she's done for the past year is do the exact opposite of what she's just said?

"I'm tired." House closes his eyes, and tilts his head slightly away from her, giving in to the exhaustion. And just like that, their conversation comes to a grinding halt, the palpable hurt and emotions lingering in the air.

* * *

><p>"What the hell were you thinking?" Wilson paces around her office, gesturing wildly at her. "Please, tell me what the hell was going through your mind when you waltzed into his room and did that!"<p>

"I don't know what I was thinking," she admits ruefully. "I just wanted to make things right."

Wilson stops, and leans over her desk. He runs his fingers through his hair. She can see the eye bags that have formed over the past few days, and the grey hair she is sure wasn't there the week before.

"Cuddy. This is House. This is the man who says _everybody lies_. Words don't matter to as much as actions do. You hooked up with Lucas. You alienated him. You didn't stand up for him when your boyfriend started rambling on about Mayfield in front of all of us. You didn't give him a chance. And now, you waltz into his room, after he nearly dies, and tell him you love him? How else did you expect him to react?"

Cuddy winces at Wilson's brutal honesty. Hearing it like that put her actions in a whole new light.

"Even _my_ own attempt at talking to him last night was very nearly a fiasco. And even though I managed to somewhat get through to him, I don't think I was getting the whole picture." Wilson sighs, and sinks down into her chair. "I don't know what's going on in his mind now, Cuddy. I can't tell you, because I can't figure it out."

"I thought it would be easy…"

"It's not. Nothing is, with House. Even with any other person, this would be difficult. Do you know what Taub told me yesterday? He told me that House tried to help him fix his relationship with his wife by trying to arrange for them to have dinner together. He said he only figured it out after a week, so convoluted was House's method of trying to help him. House is different now, after Mayfield. He sees the value of relationships. He's been trying to pursue his happiness that has proved elusive all this time after the infarction. And what did you and I do?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. "It's not surprising that he's reacting this way. Any ordinary person would find it hard to trust us again, much less House. I can see it. And you need to see it, and understand it, Cuddy. Because a repeat of what you did earlier is not going to get you through this. He is the last person on earth who will accept that."

"Then what are we supposed to do?"

Wilson's brows furrow, and his lips turn downwards in a worried frown. For once, he cannot say that his worry is for a House who is doing something stupid. For this is House acting like a human, shutting himself off in fear of getting hurt, or having to engage in emotional reconciliations and the such.

Right?

Wilson is not sure. He's never been sure about what goes on in his best friend's mind, but this time, he knows he's trying to feel his way about in the dark, blind.

"I… don't know." He has this nagging suspicion that something that he cannot understand is going on in House's mind. He has no way of anticipating it, or launching one of his famed interventions. For once, he's really at a loss. "We just have to try harder to reach him."

* * *

><p><em>AN: It seems like every chapter I apologise for the delay in updates! I've been hit by awful writers' block and pesky real life - the words just don't come out the way I want them to. An extra long chapter this time, and here's hoping the words will start to flow soon!_


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**  
><em>Yesterday was hard on all of us<em>

* * *

><p>"It's better if you go to the hospital later today, Blythe." Wilson mentions as he spears a piece of Blythe's scrumptious egg frittatas with his fork, and ladles it into his mouth. "It's not going to be – this is <em>so good<em>," he gapes at the half-eaten frittata on his plate.

Now he knows where House gets his flair for cooking for. _Seriously. _It's phenomenal.

"My specialty. Greg's favourite. I'm bringing some over to him later," she frowns as she recalls just how rapidly he has lost weight over the week. A combination of the effects of the meds, and the pain, they say. "What were you saying?"

"It's not going to be a good morning," Wilson grimaces at the very thought of it. "Physical therapy today."

* * *

><p>"Screw you," House grounds out as his right leg is slowly bent, his knee brought to his chest. "<em>It hurts<em>."

"Six more to go," Becker calmly replies as she lowers his right leg again. "You're nearly halfway there."

"Fuck… you."

"Fuck yourself back," Becker cheerfully replies. "We have to prevent muscle atrophy, especially in your right leg. Ready?"

"No! You're… a bitch," House pants heavily, clenching his fists in the sheets. "It fucking hurts."

"That's four and a half. It'll hurt more if we don't do this now. You've been in this bed for more than a week…" Becker remains calm despite his ranting, all the while observing him for signs that tells her that she's _really_ pushing him too far. "That's five done now, only five more to go."

There is no reply. She lifts his leg again, feeling his entire body tense up, his foot going rigid with the fearful expectation of pain.

As she brings the knee towards his chest, he makes a raw keening sound at the back of his throat, then he screws his eyes shut and she can almost see him _make_ himself stop. That's how far he goes to make himself seem un-weak. After that, he's silent and heaving in deep breaths. That's how she knows he's at his limits – when he withdraws into himself; it's time to stop. Cursing means he's still fighting and can be pushed.

"Okay. Take a breather, and then we'll start on the last three." No coddling for this patient – it just makes him feel worse. Best thing is to keep things matter-of-fact, or push him by snarking right back at him. She can almost feel the resentment rolling off the sweaty, panting doctor in the hospital bed. She averts her eyes, on the pretense of checking her watch, as he tries to gather himself.

She was just a rookie when he had the infarction. She saw how he pissed off even the most calm and rational of senior therapists. Then he'd quit just a few weeks later, and everyone was saying that he no longer had any chance at walking – who the hell had half their muscle removed, quit therapy, and still had a chance at walking? Then a year later, he'd appeared back in the hospital, walking aided with only a cane. It was a damn near _miracle_. He had the willpower needed to get through it, she concluded, but he just needed the right therapist.

Now, as the fifty-year-old head of physical therapy, she is determined to have him recover under his watch. She knows Dr Cuddy and Dr Wilson approached her because she's the right fit – infinite patience, but also not a pushover; possessing the ability to snark right back at him.

No way is she going let him quit on her.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Hastily, she picks up the emesis basin and places it under his chin as he retches. The back brace that was fitted just yesterday prevents him from bending his back, so the angle is awkward.

She can tell it's time to stop. Without saying anything, she moves to the foot of the bed.

"We'll stop here today," she says as she fills in the chart at the foot of his bed. "I'll see you tomorrow at the same time."

"Fuck you." His arm seems to be flopped carelessly over his eyes, her trained eyes can see the tense way with which he holds himself.

"I look forward to seeing you too," she replies dryly. "I'll order up more pain meds for you."

He makes some sort of noise at the back of his throat that she takes to be a grumbled murmur of agreement (or optimistically, gratitude).

Cuddy enters just as Becker is about to leave. They exchange meaningful glances silently, Cuddy trying to find out how things went, Becker trying to tell her without talking –

"Stop trying to communicate without talking, Becker," House snaps from the bed, eyes still closed. "You, Cuddy and Wilson will have a field day discussing this behind my back anyway."

Becker raises her eyebrows at Cuddy, who grimaces. "I'll see you tomorrow, House."

"There is no need to repeat yourself!" House flings an empty cup at them both ineffectively. It clatters to the floor a few feet short of the door, and he glares at them. Now, everyone is hyper-aware of his weakness from just a few days in a hospital bed. It's painfully obvious.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Any problems with the back brace?"

"You are _not_ an orthopedist."

Short, clipped answers. Cuddy injects a booster, then busies herself reading through his chart, giving him his space.

The hurt must have shown on her face, for he acquiesces, "Matthews is coming by later. But it's fine."

The silence is a gaping chasm once again. Never has there been such tenuous silence between them both – they are usually snarking and flirting and talking. He seems satisfied with things being this way, but she wants this awkwardness to stop. Except, after his… _rejection_ last week, she had no idea how to how to go about making it all normal again.

"I heard your team got a new case," she ventures, "How's it going?"

"They're running tests."

"That's… good."

He nods curtly, and then focuses his eyes on the ceiling.

"You haven't been eating much… You've lost weight."

"Side-effect of the meds."

She's out of things to say to him. A nurse enters then. Judging by the displeased look on her face, she's drawn the short straw. It's not a secret that the nurses jostle over who gets to _not _deal with House.

Catching sight of the basin of water, and cloths, Cuddy takes them from the nurse. "I'll do it."

The nurse cocks an eyebrow before nodding and leaving gratefully. This will no doubt be all over the hospital grapevine soon, and that is in addition to the rumors already flying about after Lucas didn't pop by her office last Tuesday and Thursday as per his twice-a-week visits, not to mention the huge fight that nearly everyone seemed to have overheard – even though they weren't on the same floor. It seems like everyone was there outside the room during the argument, when in fact, there was none directly outside the door. They might have overheard from the nurses' station though.

Not that Cuddy isn't used to rumors about her and House spreading around the hospital. She's gotten used to it over the years – it is undeniable that there is _something_ between her and House. After all, she perjured herself for him. That was when it all started.

"You don't have to do this," House mutters, his hands grasping her wrists, stopping her from untying his hospital gown.

"I thought it was always a fantasy of yours," she remarks lightly. The feel of his hands around her wrists give her a tingly feeling in her spine. "You can tick it off your bucket list."

She is relieved when he gives a snort. "Right."

"I don't mind doing this, House. Really," she says softly.

He stares at her for a while before somehow, he relents, and releases his grip on her hands. She opens his gown to reveal the rigid back brace that Matthews fit on him just yesterday. The most she can do at the moment while the brace has to be worn 24/7 is apply powder.

He holds himself tensely as she gives him the sponge bath, running the cloth over his long limbs. His right arm is more muscular than his left from years of supporting his weight on the cane, and there is a callus running across the palm of his right hand. His fingers are that of a musician. His shoulders are broad, the right disproportionately stronger. Muscle on him doesn't take on a bulky form – they instead give definition to his lean body. He's always been lean and muscular – lacrosse and various other sports in college – but she remembers the infarction and how he was so _thin_ for months after his body had betrayed him, robbing him of his mobility and freedom. He's put on weight over the years, but he still appears to be on the thin side. He's lost weight over the year, she realizes. She wonders if it's because the pain is at a higher baseline now that he's off the Vicodin.

"Is the pain worse," she can't help but ask, "now that you're off the Vicodin?"

"I'm always in pain," he mutters after a while. "Never goes away."

She wonders just when they thought he could survive without pain meds at all – there is after all, half a thigh muscle missing and severed nerves that fire off randomly. Not to mention aching muscles that are overused and wearing out with age.

She moves to his legs. The left is in an extensive cast, but she knows that it is heavily muscled from years of placing almost all his weight on it. He works hard to conceal it well: when he stands, all his weight is placed on his left leg. His right leg, on the other hand, is a stark contrast. The remainder of his left leg's muscles work extra hard to allow him to walk. His calf is undersized, but what exists of his right thigh is large and bulky from years of compensating for missing muscle. There is a callus at the ball of his right foot, a clue of his inevitably unique way of walking. He used to lurch down the halls unsteadily, but over the years, he has acquired a grace, much like a ship that gently rocks from side to side on tranquil waters. How good is he at hiding his pain, she wonders.

She trails the towel up towards his scar, and she can feel him tense further as she approaches the edges of it. "It's okay," she murmurs. She gently swipes the cloth around the canyon that is the scar, skirting the ridges and valleys in the ruined landscape. She carefully avoids the bandage that covers the deep gash, making sure not to get it wet. She doesn't touch the scar itself yet. The femur is close to the surface, and the scar tissue is thick and unyielding. His life revolves around it – one accidental knock against a cabinet can result in agony. The femur is a strong bone, but without muscle to cushion it, it is still vulnerable.

She remembers the one time just a three months after the infarction when Wilson had to admit House because he fell and sustained a horrific bruise on the thigh that caused him so much agony he couldn't keep food down. The resentment and bitterness had permeated his entire room that time despite his sickly frame, the IV nutrition yet another sign of his weakness – he simply could not afford to skip meals.

Just as she is about to gently wipe the scar, his arm shoots out.

"Don't," he says. "Just… don't."

"It's okay," she repeats.

"_Don't_."

She is disappointed that he doesn't trust her, but she doesn't push him.

"Okay," she says quietly. "House… I think – "

"I feel better now," he wraps his hospital gown back on, tying the string. "Thanks."

He's not being rude. She can sense the apprehension in him. "House, I know I – "

"I'm tired."

"Just leave."

"I – "

"_Please._"

Cuddy bites her bottom lip, and looks at House. He's pointedly looking away from her. She can't read his expression.

There is nothing she can do except agree. "Okay…" She adds, "Just… please, try to eat something for lunch."

The inscrutable look he gives her makes her wish she could do more. But she leaves, just like he asks her to.

* * *

><p>It's lunch time when Blythe peeks into the room, which is empty except for her sleeping son. A medical journal lies open on his lap, his hands still grasping it lightly. Gently, she pries his fingers off the journal, and sets the journal on the bedside table.<p>

She understands why it would have been a bad morning for her son. The month she spent in Princeton after his infarction (John went back to Lexington after a week) had been tough. Greg, in that way, was just like his father – both tended to lash out when hurt or in pain. Not just physical, but emotional and psychological pain too. She can only thank the stars that her son has a friend like James, who's patient, caring and just about the best friend a mother can hope for her son.

"Greg," she says softly, "Wake up."

As he opens his eyes sleepily, she is reminded of the time she first saw him open his eyes after he was born. Her breath had been taken away – his eyes were blue, so blue. Like his father's. His _real_ father's. She remembers holding him close and thinking, _my son, my beautiful son_, and not believing that such a beautiful boy could be her child. That was when she decided that she could never reveal the truth – that he wasn't John's son. She couldn't bring herself to ruin the life of such a beautiful boy. She would never leave John so that Gregory would be able to grow up in an intact family.

"I made your favorite frittatas and oyako-don," she unpacks the food, and sets them on the rolling table. The Japanese dish, with chicken, onions and soft scrambled egg over rice with the sweet and salty sauce, is his absolute favorite comfort from when their family was based in Japan. She hasn't made it in years. "They told me you aren't eating enough. You _know_ you need to eat more to regain your strength. Even I know that and I'm not a doctor."

"Mom…" she is reminded of him, as an eight year old, whining and not wanting to do his homework, "The meds suppress the appetite. It's normal."

She places her hands on her hips. "It is not normal if James says it isn't."

"I'm a better doctor," Greg sulks. "My opinion is the right one."

"Gregory House. I know hospital food is unpalatable," she wrinkles her nose at the brown goop on the tray, "and I made the frittatas for you. You jolly well eat it. Do not make me feed you."

She smiles at the horrified look on his face. She knows he'll eat it. He can't resist it. Sure enough, he grabs the fork and narrowing his eyes at her, shoves a piece of the frittata into his mouth.

Blythe hides a smile as she watches her son relax and start to eat without seeming like he's being held at knifepoint and forced to do so. He's enjoying it, she can tell.

"It's good, isn't it?" she innocently asks. "It's been a long time since you ate my frittatas and oyako-don."

Greg is failing to hide his enjoyment. He knows she's a living lie detector. "Yeah," he grumbles. "It's good."

"Eat more then. How was physical therapy?"

He stops to consider her question. "Fine," he answers tersely.

_Painful_, she thinks. He looks tired.

She's only alerted to Wilson's presence when Greg says warningly, "Wilson. Don't even think about it."

Wilson is lightning fast as he pinches a piece of the frittata off House's plate. House attempts to slap his hand but his reflexes are slower after days of inactivity. He only manages to scratch Wilson, who escapes with a piece of the frittata triumphantly.

"Ow!" Wilson rubs his knuckles, which now bear a bright red scratch. "What was that for!"

"That's mine," House snarls as he watches Wilson drop the frittata into his mouth. "Serves you right."

"You always steal my food anyway," Wilson collapses onto the couch. "Tit for tat. Eye for an eye." He changes the subject abruptly. "The board meeting was such a nightmare."

"What?" House perks up. "Why? What new gossip do you have for me."

"Well Wrenner was against the budget cuts in Cardiology, so Lopez was giving him a hard time, arguing for the budget increase for Pediatrics and…"

Blythe listens with amusement as Wilson and House share gossip. House, from a few days in bed, has skimmed quite a bit of gossip from the nurses who seem to can't keep their voices down. It is quite funny – her intelligent, prickly son, world-famous diagnostician _gossiping_.

She is startled out of her reverie when Dr Chase yelps. "Ow!"

Chase drops the frittata he was attempting to steal back onto the plate, and House swipes it and shoves it into his mouth. " 's mine," he says with his mouth full. "No stealing."

Chase makes a face. "Then why does Wilson get one."

Blythe looks at Wilson, who currently has another piece of frittata in his hands.

"Mind your own business."

"I practically rebuilt your ribcage and its contents!" Chase protests. "One frittata is not too much to ask."

"Greg," Blythe interjects. "Please pass the nice Dr Chase who did save your life a piece of frittata."

House, to Wilson's amusement, blows a raspberry at his team member and grudgingly hands one piece over.

"This is marvelous, Mrs House," Chase is in awe as he chews on the frittata. "Fantastic stuff."

Wilson eyes House with a vague sense of pride and amusement as he grudgingly lets Chase, who probably has never had homecooked food while growing up, have another small piece. .

The improvement in House's mood and disposition does not go unnoticed by Wilson, who quietly watches the scene in front of him – Chase checking House's dressings, Blythe laughing and talking to her son. They've had trouble for several days getting food into House. He was so sure House was slowly sinking into a quiet depression. But here he was, shoveling down oyako-don and frittatas and gossiping with Wilson, and blowing raspberries at Chase. The wonders of home-cooked food and mothers, it seems.

Wilson is not convinced – _is House putting on an act? For his mother, or for us all?_ – because he has seen House put on acts so convincing he fools every single person. Even his best friend. Like how he hid his hallucinations for days, and how hard Kutner's death hit him.

But there's no harm in enjoying this brief respite from medical emergencies and dying patients and the prospect of tough physical recovery. It is precisely because it is transient that Wilson is all the more determined to enjoy it.

* * *

><p>Wilson and Blythe wait outside the room as Matthews and Chase check on House's back brace and various injuries. Wilson had originally wanted to stay, but Chase, under House's orders had been insistent in them both leaving even though there was no real reason for them to do so.<p>

"I'm his doctor, and you're both family," he'd said. "Please leave the room for now."

Wilson, memories of Chase's dressing down still fresh in his mind, had given in.

With a nod to Matthews – one of the few doctors House truly respected and hence didn't give hell to – who left to give his report to Wilson and Blythe, House beckons for Chase to stay.

"So what reason do you have for asking me to practically shoo Wilson and your mum out of the room?"

"I need you to do some things for me," House says softly. "Don't tell anyone, even Wilson and Cuddy."

Chase regards his mentor oddly. He tries to lighten the mood. "Is it illegal?"

House snorts. "I wish. Boring stuff."

"Fire away."

It takes some convincing, but Chase finally agrees to, amongst other things, install the necessary ramps and bars in House's apartment, in preparation for House's discharge from the hospital.

"You can't live alone with your wheelchair and back brace!" Chase protests, "It's just not safe!"

"Yes I can," House stubbornly insists. "Are you going to do it or not."

"House…"

"I'll pay you."

"No! I won't do it for the money," Chase is aghast. It's sad, really, how House is so oblivious to the fact that people do care for him. "Fine, I'll do it. Not for the money, but because you asked me to."

"I trust you, Chase," House says, his eyes on his feet. Chase feels a kind of warmth spread to his toes. Few people gain the trust of House, and he's actually one of them.

But still, it's just not safe for House to be on his own.

"Does Wilson know you don't intend to live with – "

"Strike one."

"I think you should tell him – "

"Strike two. Three strikes, and you're out."

Chase sighs. He doesn't know why the hell he feels so much for House. It's like all the feelings he was supposed to have for his own father leaked out when he came to know House. "I want you to trust me."

"Then don't screw this up," House says simply. "Don't tell them."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Okay, I am really really sorry about the delay in updates! (Yes, an apology again. It's like I do one every chapter.) So many things have been going on lately in real life. I actually really liked these four scenes, and I hope you do too. _


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**  
><em>Same Mistake <em>

* * *

><p>"Are you sure, Greg?" Blythe sits next to him on the bed, laying her hands over his, "I can stay longer. Aunt Sarah says she can hire a home nurse to help out."<p>

House rolls his eyes. "Mom."

"I'm just worried about you, Greg."

"You've packed your suitcase and everything! It's been two weeks. And I'm pretty sure stroke and partial paralysis in a seventy-two year old trumps…" House gestures vaguely towards his body, "… _this_."

"I'm not sure about that, sweetie."

House winces at the saccharine term of endearment. "Well, Wilson has told you – I'll be moving in with him when I'm discharged in a week. Everything's going to be fine."

"Maybe we shouldn't trouble James. After all, Sam is there, and – "

"Oh, it won't be any trouble at all. He feeds off neediness, remember? He's some sort of neediness-sucking vampire."

"Ahem," Wilson interjects. "Over here, remember?"

"Don't say that about James. It's very nice of him to ask you to move in with him again." Blythe turns to Wilson. "Thank you so much, James. Let me know if he's any trouble."

"Oh, he's always trouble. I can handle it." Both he and Blythe exchange knowing looks, pointedly ignoring House's own dirty look.

Blythe leans over, and gives her son a peck on the cheek. "You really should consider shaving. It's more like a beard now."

"Yes, Mom."

"Take more calcium. You have broken bones that are healing - "

"Okay."

"Don't do anything stupid. You don't want more injuries. – "

"Mom."

"And don't work so hard, Greg. Take a few weeks off to recuperate. I must tell Dr Foreman not to – "

"_Mom._"

"Okay," Blythe sighs. "Just promise me you will take care of yourself. And that you'll call me. No lapsing into months without calling again. Please."

House nods his assent. "Send my regards to Aunt Sarah."

"I love you, Greg."

"I know."

* * *

><p>"Something," Wilson proclaims as he flops down dramatically onto Cuddy's office couch, "is up with House."<p>

Cuddy looks up from her laptop. "Why do you say that?"

"Have you seen – " Wilson is interrupted by a knock on the door. He peers outside to see Matthews, Becker, Chase, Foreman, Thirteen and Taub waiting outside the door. Cuddy waves them all in, and they settle themselves comfortably in chairs. "What's this?"

"We're discussing House's recovery and discharge plans. That's why I asked you here." Cuddy raises her eyebrows at Wilson. "What were you saying?"

"Never mind. Go ahead," Wilson frowns slightly.

"Are you sure we should have this discussion without House?" Chase asks. Just what Wilson was feeling.

Cuddy replies calmly, "It's good that we have our own… _battle plan_."

Becker cuts in. "Actually, I beg to differ. House has actually been working very hard for PT. Well, he hasn't quit yet. He's still uh, cursing at me – nothing I can't handle, of course – but _I'm_ the one who has to say stop. He just wants to keep going. I tell him that the point of PT is to gradually restore function and regain strength _slowly_ but he seems intent on speeding things up."

Matthews nods, tapping his fingers on Cuddy's table. "I agree. I hear from the nurses that he's been doing his own strengthening exercises. I expected him to be a whiny kid about the back brace, giving me shit about how uncomfortable it is, but there's… nothing."

"He even let our occupational therapists go through… uh, how to cope with his… temporary lack of mobility," Becker offers. "He didn't chase them out or anything. He did berate them, but it was rather meek for his standards, apparently."

"He's on track to be discharged in a few days," Chase adds in. He hastily banishes the thought of the post-discharge fiasco that will no doubt take place. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. "Everything's good for now on my end."

After the discussion is complete, Cuddy sits down next to Wilson on the couch, and they stare blankly at the opposite wall. House did seem a little distracted and more reticent than usual – the insults were still flung about liberally but they did seem a little weird - but everything was still going swimmingly well.

Which was wrong on so many different levels.

Chase lingers at the door, looking back at the two of them. "Wilson…" he says hesitantly, "I… never mind."

Before Wilson can respond, Chase walks out into the clinic. Wilson doesn't sense anything amiss, neither does Cuddy.

The office is silent now, and Wilson and Cuddy sit shoulder to shoulder.

"Yeah," Cuddy frowns. "Something is definitely up."

* * *

><p>Chase is standing at the foot of House's bed, filling in the chart when a tall, dark-skinned man looks in through the door.<p>

House is sleeping, exhausted from a PT session that followed hot on the heels of a particularly intense – there was an abundance of shouting that involved the words_ idiots_ – differential with the team.

Chase looks up at this man, and offers a smile. "You are…?"

"I'm looking for Dr House…? I'm Charles."

Chase tenses slightly, vivid memories of a man walking in and shooting House years ago surfacing in his mind. "He's sleeping. How may I help you?"

"I just… wanted to talk to him."

"Well he's sleeping right now, so if you could come back – "

"I'm awake," House's voice is hoarse with sleep. "I _was_ sleeping. You need to work on your inside voices."

Chase rolls his eyes, and goes back to checking the chart. Out of the corner, he watches Charles, who approaches the bed slowly before sitting down gingerly in the visitors' chair. "I'm Charles." He extends his hand, only to drop it as soon as he realizes that House has no intention to return the gesture.

"Never seen you before. What do you want?"

"I… I am Hanna's husband."

Charles doesn't seem to notice House's increase in heart-rate and stiff posture; his head is bowed and he's staring at his hands. "I would like to say thank you… for going down there to help. And for staying down there with her."

Chase observes with fascination how affected House is by the appearance of this Charles, husband of Hanna. There have only been a handful of patients over the years that House truly feels for, and this Hanna seems to be one of them.

House is silently staring at the hunched figure of the man in front of him, in a trance. "Chase," he mumbles abruptly as he half snaps out of it. "Give us a moment."

"I'm not done with the charting," Chase instantly resists.

"You can do your charting outside."

"House…"

"_Out._"

Chase finds himself walking out, and he hates himself for it.

Five minutes later, Diagnostics' current patient codes, and he finds himself sprinting off towards the patient's room, forgetting all about Charles.

* * *

><p>Cuddy enters House's room, only to find him sleeping. She frowns, then checks her watch. Right on cue, Becker walks in. Cuddy gestures to House and asks, "PT?"<p>

Becker sighs as she shuts the sliding door. "He pushed himself way too hard today. Kept demanding for me to push him harder and faster," she frowns, tapping her chin. "It's like he _wanted_ to be in pain."

"What do you mean?"

"It was like he wanted to be punished, you know? None of the usual jibes today -" Definitely weird, thinks Cuddy, since Becker and House usually spar with each other relentlessly, thanks to Becker's own immunity to and talent for creative insults, while House channeled all the frustration into brutally sharp barbs. " – and he was just… distracted. Not himself at all. Well, the excessive PT set off spasms, and I had to top up the pain meds…" Becker grimaces. "It wasn't pretty. But he'll be out for the next few hours, I think."

What could have set this off? Cuddy flips through the chart, trying to find any pertinent information. Of course, there was nothing. The nurses too, couldn't offer anything of use. Cuddy didn't expect to get any information from them – they usually avoided House The Patient like the plague – so she isn't surprised.

She settles herself in the chair, prepared to wait for House to wake up, only to receive a call from Marina. She's clean forgotten that Marina was leaving early today for her daughter's school play.

Reluctantly, Cuddy gets to her feet. She gazes at House for a while, hesitating just so slightly before running her fingers through his hair. She presses a soft kiss to his forehead – something not possible if he were awake, judging by how things are between them – and goes home to her daughter.

* * *

><p>Her eyes shoot open in the dark, and for just a moment, she's disoriented.<p>

Right. At home, asleep. Middle of the night.

Her phone vibrates, her ringtone breaking the silent

Cuddy blearily reaches for the phone, tossing a cursory glance at the alarm clock. Two am. It could only be an emergency from the hospital.

"Dr Cuddy, we have a situation…" The night nurse is stuttering, obviously terrified. "Dr House is missing."

Cuddy is suddenly wide-awake. She leaps out of bed as she barks instructions into the phone. She calls Wilson, who's already on his way. She shoves on a pair of dark-colored jeans, and exchanges her spaghetti top for a loose blouse. On goes a pair of ballet flats. She grabs a sleeping Rachel from the crib, gets in the car, and drives to the hospital.

She drops Rachel off in her office with Nurse Jeffrey before heading up to House's room. Wilson meets her outside the room, which she can see is empty, devoid of House's wheelchair and duffle bag. His books and journals are still there, but his iPod is gone.

Wilson, disheveled in his sweatshirt and jeans, rubs frantically at his neck. "We've searched the whole floor, and his office." He holds up a hospital gown. "They found this in his office."

"Oh god. His leg is still in a cast, and he's in a back brace! How the hell – "

At this, the night nurse hovering anxiously by them – Nurse Clara – pipes up. "Actually," she stammers nervously, "He asked to change into scrubs after his evening bath today. We were all tied up with a double code just now, and didn't see him slip out."

Cuddy closes her eyes and resists the urge to throw her phone at the wall, or just yell at someone. She opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a familiar accented voice.

"I just heard," Chase says breathlessly. "He's probably going home."

Wilson shoots out his arm to steady himself against the wall. "_What?_"

Chase looks guilty. "He just… He asked me to help redo the apartment. Wheelchair ramps, moving things around… the such." He gestures futilely in the air, letting his voice trail off into nothingness.

The atmosphere that lingers after his statement is suffocating. Wilson and Cuddy can only look at Chase, mouths agape.

Cuddy explodes for real. "_What?_"

"I know I shouldn't have kept it from you guys, but I wanted him to trust me," Chase says almost desperately. "He's already alienating you two. I couldn't give him a chance to do that to me too. He needs _someone_ to trust."

Cuddy knows that Chase is right.

"You knew," Wilson points a finger at Chase, his hands at his hips. "He didn't intend to come stay with me and Sam at all. He said he would, but everybody lies. He was planning all of this." He turns to Cuddy. "I told you something was up!" There was none of the _I told you so_ tone. No, Wilson sounds plain horrified.

Cuddy takes a deep breath and forces herself to clear her mind. "Okay. We are going to settle this later. First things first, we need to find House."

* * *

><p>"You said," House says desperately down the phone towards no one in particular. A machine, perhaps. Voicemail. "You said I could call you anytime I feel like taking Vicodin. You said you would help me, as long as I asked – "<p>

House looks down at the Vicodin bottles cradled in his palm. His hands are shaking, and he finds that he can't make them stop.

" - Help me, Nolan."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Has it really been a month? I'm so sorry, guys. Real life (and work) is a bitch. A short chapter, but one that sets up things to come. _

_Even though I anticipated this season being House's last, I'm still sad to see it end. This show captivated me from the very start: the anti-hero as the hero we all love to hate and hate to love; who seems callous and clinical, but who cares so much for others he needs to distance himself; who carries around so much guilt and self-loathing, but shows none of it; who has been let down by so many others and lives in constant pain; who is so deeply flawed, but still innately good._

_I still have so many ideas buzzing around in my head that I intend to turn into fics. I've stuck by this show despite its deteriorating quality, and I'll be here even after its end, writing. _

_I promise it won't take a month for the next update. _


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**  
><em>Liar, Liar<em>

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm Charles."<em>

"_Never seen you before." _

"_My wife is… Hanna. You found her in the rubble." _

_House stiffens. Somewhere in his mind, it registers that his heart is beating faster. He doesn't quite know if this is anxiety, or concern. Or whether it's both. Or whether, in this situation, they are one and the same. Charles doesn't seem to notice this; his head is bowed and he's staring at his hands. _

"_I would like to say thank you," Charles' voice wavers dangerously, "for going down there to help save her." _

_House stares at the hunched figure on the man in front of him. Charles does not look like someone who recently got his wife back from the brink of death. _

_It suddenly occurs to House that perhaps, Charles is here to express his grievances and disappointment. Maybe Charles thinks that he should have fought harder for Hanna's leg, instead of giving in so easily, and crippling her for life. _

_He mutely waits for Charles to continue. _

_"It took me so long to come because… I blamed you. If you didn't amputate… things could have been different. If you waited… Maybe they would have been able to get her out anyway. _

_It is the same thought – same doubt – that House knows will haunt him for perhaps the rest of his life. _

"_But I realized that you did that because it was the only way to get her out. And because you got her out… I got to see her again, talk to her again, even if it was only for a few minutes." _

_At this point, House's face, which had been a carefully constructed front of nonchalance, morphs. All the blood drains out of his face, and his mouth falls open slightly. _

"_What –" House croaks. His throat seems to be closing up, and he has to struggle to calm himself down. "What do you mean?" _

_Charles sucks in a deep breath, and raises his head. To House's growing horror, he is crying. _

"_Hanna might have died of a fat embolism from the amputation you did, Dr House. I blamed you, for a while. Why couldn't we wait to clear the rubble? But I spoke to the firefighters, and they explained it all to me. So I forgive you. You did your best to save my wife. In fact, thank you. Thank you for risking her life, doing what needed to be done, and for giving me the chance to see her for one last time." _

* * *

><p>The apartment door is ajar.<p>

He pushes open the door, and treads carefully through the darkness that enshrouds the entire apartment. He walks towards the dim light at the end of the hallway.

He inches himself around the wheelchair, and sits down on the edge of the bathtub. Quietly, he waits.

"You came," House breathes, "in the middle of the night."

Nolan checks his watch. "3.13 in the morning, to be exact."

"I reached your voicemail."

"Unfortunately, you called me while I was in the toilet."

"Thought you wouldn't come."

"You did walk out of our last therapy session. And ignored my calls for three weeks," Nolan agreed mildly. "But I did promise you that you could call me whenever you needed to, 24/7, when we first started out."

House finally raises his head to look at his therapist. "Are you gonna snatch them out of my hand?"

Nolan doesn't allow himself to glance at the amber bottles cradled in House's palm. Instead, he locks his eyes on House's. "No."

House exhales with a shaky half-laugh before looking back down at his hand.

"You have been clean for a year," Nolan says calmly, quietly, "85% of drug addicts would have relapsed by now."

"I…" House inhales sharply, and then closes his shaking hand around the Vicodin. "Just take them."

This, Nolan knows, is the most crucial moment. "Do you want to give them to me?"

House tightens his trembling fist around the Vicodin. "Just take them from me."

"I'm not going to forcibly take them from you," Nolan says slowly. "It is your choice, Greg, whether you want to give them to me."

"Just take them!" House roars, slamming his left hand down on the armrest of his wheelchair. His right fist is still closed tight around the Vicodin, and he has to resist the urge to hold it close to his chest..

Nolan doesn't flinch at the outburst. Instead, he slowly extends his hand, his palm facing upwards, to wait expectantly. "Then make your choice, and give them to me."

House can't bring himself to pry his fingers from the amber bottles. He can almost taste the relief that would come with the white pills. He stares, mesmerized, as his hands move to pop open the cap, and shake out a pill.

Nolan remains perfectly calm. "It is your choice. Do you want to take the pills?"

House swallows. "I want it to stop."

"Want what to stop?"

"This… feeling."

"And the Vicodin will stop this feeling?"

House's logical mind knows the answer. "It will make me feel better," he murmurs faintly.

"We established together last summer that the Vicodin numbs you."

"Changed my mind."

"I doubt it." Nolan pauses, observing his patient. House is trembling, practically vibrating in his chair, and swallowing, compulsively, over and over again, as though trying to prevent himself from throwing up. "Something that upset you greatly has happened. You have a choice – do you want to take the Vicodin to numb yourself, or do you want to talk about it, and work through it?"

"Don't know... I don't know."

"You called me. And you didn't take the pills even though you have been here for nearly an hour. I think that's saying something."

House tears his eyes away from his clenched fist, and finally looks at Nolan. There is deep-seated uncertainty and even torment in there. Whatever happened, Nolan knows, must have been struck House deeply.

"So," Nolan leans in, and waits. "What is your choice?"

House stares at Nolan's empty palm before shifting his gaze back to his own. His heart is pounding and his blood is rushing through his veins, making him feel faint and light-headed.

"I…" he swallows, hard, again. "I..."

"It's okay," Nolan says in an undertone. "It's okay. Take your time."

House stares at the amber vials in his hand, unable to tear himself away from the lure of numbing himself.

But then he thinks of what he'd gone through – the horrible, bone-wrenching fear that he was losing his mind – the one thing he could always rely on – the hallucinations, Amber taunting him, the detox, the helplessness, being trapped within Mayfield with the empty feelings of loss and hopelessness…

Very slowly, he pries his fingers from around the amber bottles. They are stiff from his iron grip, and they twitch and tremble against his will, making the bottles rattle enticingly. Hyper-aware of Nolan's gaze on him, he picks up the single white pill he shook out, and very deliberately puts it back into one of the two amber bottles. Then he caps the open bottle, and it closes with a _click_.

With trembling hands, he reaches out, and resisting the urge to not do so, he hesitantly drops the bottles into Nolan's outstretched palm.

Nolan slips the pills into his pocket, a look of pride flashing in his eyes.

House clenches both his fists, and exhales heavily. He deflates into his wheelchair, yet somehow still remaining a mass of tension, eyes downcast on his casted left leg.

"Are there any more pills we should clear out?" Nolan asks, deliberately using the word _we_. It had been one of their sessions last summer – they'd made a daytrip out of Mayfield to clear out all the Vicodin in House's apartment. He wasn't surprised to find out that House had kept some for _just in case_. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. House was a man skeptical of both his capacity for strength and his deserving of happiness.

House answers faintly, "No. Just these two."

Nolan turns to look at the shattered mirror on the ground. None of the sharp pieces near House. He hadn't intended to cut himself, then.

"Sorry," House mumbles breathlessly, wrapping his arms awkwardly around himself. "Sorry."

Nolan eyes his most challenging patient to date. It had taken weeks for him to get through to him, initially, in Mayfield. But when he had gotten through, he found that Greg House was a vulnerable man. He was well-aware that the man that sat in front of him week after week, for almost one whole year now, was totally different from the persona he projected day in and day out outside the sheltered, safe environment that was Mayfield.

Nolan knows he's one of the few people to ever see Gregory House cry, or apologize profusely. It seems impossible coming from a man like House, but therapy sessions force people to confront problems. And House had been through several extremely traumatic experiences, some just recently, some dating back to his childhood.

"It's okay," he says firmly but gently. "Deep breaths."

House shudders, his inhales and exhales erratic and unsteady. "Can't… Sorry…" he gasps, and then repeats. "Sorry."

"There is nothing to apologize for." In fact, Nolan thinks House doesn't even know _what_ he is apologizing for. Then Nolan adds, "I'm going to touch you now, alright?"

He places his hand reassuringly on House's shoulder, and waits for him to calm down.

* * *

><p>"James."<p>

"Darryl?" Wilson sounds frantic, just as Nolan had expected. "Anything wro – no, wait. Is House with you?"

Nolan looks in the rear view mirror, eyes drawn to the hospital bracelet that House had been too distracted to remove as he holds the steering wheel steady. "He called me," he confirms. "He's with me now."

Wilson sighs audibly with relief. "Where are you? Is he okay?"

"We're on the way to PPTH." Nolan phrases his words carefully as he peers in his rearview mirror at the sleeping figure in his backseat. He'd given House half a dose of Ativan. "He's asleep."

Wilson starts to speak, but Nolan cuts him off.

"I am not sure what transpired, James. Or how he ended up with the injuries. But I do know that he was extremely upset. I had half a mind to bring him home with me because he asked me not to bring him back to the hospital, but he is in no condition to be discharged."

"What… did he say?" Wilson says weakly.

"I think it's better if we talk in person."

"Darryl…"

"I'll be in PPTH in ten minutes."

* * *

><p>"I think it's better if you don't come in for the moment," Nolan says as he steps out of House's room, closing the sliding door behind him.<p>

Wilson notes in dismay that House is back on the nasal cannula. Nolan follows his gaze and adds, "Just a precaution." He'd perused House's chart earlier, and was quite simply amazed that House had managed to make his own way out of the hospital and back to his apartment.

"How is he?" Cuddy interrupts breathlessly as she strides up the hallway, Rachel in her arms. She had remained in the hospital – which had been in lockdown after House's disappearance – while Wilson and Chase had driven out separately to search for House.

Nolan turns and looks at Cuddy. She looks far too concerned and anxious about House for someone who has gotten engaged, and has continually rebuffed him. "Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private?"

They end up in Wilson's office, by virtue of its proximity.

Nolan takes the Vicodin out from his pocket, and sets it on the table in front of him.

Wilson and Cuddy stare.

"I am only telling you this because you are his closest friends." Nolan leans back onto the couch, by no means relaxing. "He was very – no, _extremely_ – close, but he made the right decision in the end."

Wilson relaxes marginally, dropping his head into his hands, while Cuddy sits ramrod straight, still on edge.

"Greg was in Mayfield for almost four months. He was reluctant to cooperate at first, but he soon came around. Since then, he's been working hard. And you and I both know that it is not easy for a man as private as he is."

Cuddy opens her mouth as if to protest, stopping herself when Nolan raises a hand to stop her. But she cannot resist saying, "He stopped going for sessions with you."

Nolan nods his head once, curtly. "He did."

"Why?"

"You know I cannot share that with you. You two, on the other hand, can share with me how exactly he ended up with his left leg in a cast, a broken back, broken ribs and very nearly taking Vicodin for the first time in a whole year."

Wilson and Cuddy flush red and shrink into themselves.

"I am waiting for an answer," Nolan states calmly, leaning back into the armchair. "Because he refused to tell me anything."

"You know the crane collapse downtown two weeks ago? He was caught in the secondary collapse," Wilson offers hesitantly, "He was with a woman, in the rubble."

Nolan interrupts with a rather incredulous look on his face. "He was involved in the rescue work?" He doesn't wait for a response before continuing, "Let me get this straight. You let your crippled doctor who suffers from debilitating chronic pain, do rescue work."

"She only wanted him," Cuddy justifies lamely.

They have to admit, it sounds ridiculous now.

"And…?"

"He had to amputate her leg to get her out," Cuddy cringes involuntarily as she recalls what had happened that night. "To save her life."

"Ah," Nolan remarks. He's beginning to get an idea of what happened. But he doubts that's all.

"After she was rescued…" Cuddy thinks back to the words she'd uttered to House, and the sense of regret that had ached in her very bones, "the secondary collapse occurred."

"He was trapped under for about two and a half hours," Wilson adds. He considers telling Nolan about what had transpired while he was in the rubble with House, but doesn't feel comfortable sharing what had been such a private moment between him and House.

So that's all they offer Nolan, both reluctant to reveal anything else to this outsider.

"That's all?" Nolan frowns. "Because that was two weeks ago. There must have been something else that drove him to escape from the hospital, and to the Vicodin. And so adamantly refuse to come back."

"He's an addict," Cuddy says softly. "He was being weaned off the painkillers."

Wilson obviously agrees with her, for he nods slightly.

At this, Nolan leans forward, and says very sharply, "He did _not_ do this just because he was craving narcotics. Like I told you, he made the right choice in _not_ taking the vicodin. _Something_ happened."

Wilson and Cuddy are slightly taken aback by Nolan's strong assertion. With a surge of guilt, they realize they probably had jumped to conclusions to soon, always assuming the worst of House.

They hesitantly shake their head. House technically had been fine for the past two weeks. And nothing out of the ordinary had happened yesterday. Things had been rather strained, yes, but it had been for the past week and a half. So they honestly don't know what had gone wrong yesterday.

"Alright," Nolan says slowly. He has his suspicions, but he can't do anything for now with House asleep and the two doctors in front of him quite obviously uncomfortable with divulging anything further. "I'll talk to Greg when he wakes up."

Wilson and Cuddy nod dumbly, not quite knowing what to feel about having Nolan's intervention. Part of them wants to keep it just amongst the three of them, another part wants Nolan to help figure out how to make things better.

Nolan stands up, and walks towards the door. Stopping at the doorway, he looks back.

"Look," he says, "Greg has worked hard over the past year. And sometimes, I think you don't give him enough credit for it. It isn't just about the Vicodin." Nolan pauses, then adds, "There was a reason we decided that he shouldn't come back to work here after he was released from Mayfield. You may not realize it, but this environment? All the things that have happened within the walls of this building; being around people who have been doubting him and viewing him as a public nuisance and as someone who requires _saving_ from himself, a lost cause – or misanthropic bastard – for the past decade? It's _toxic_. It's not helping his progress. So I am going to make one thing clear – I am his therapist. I am on his side. I'll always be on his side. My goal is to help _him_. Not you, nor the hospital, nor the most desperate of patients."

And with that, Nolan walks out of Wilson's office.

* * *

><p>A slight movement on the bed alerts Nolan to the fact that House is waking up.<p>

Nolan sets down his journal and shifts his chair closer to House's bed. He interlocks his fingers, resting his hands on his lap, and waits expectantly.

House opens his eyes, catches sight of Nolan, and immediately closes his eyes, feigning sleep. Too bad Nolan's eyes are fixed on his face.

"That's childish," Nolan says matter-of-factly. "I do know you're awake."

House keeps mum. He wants to roll over to face the wall, but thanks to the back brace, he's stuck on his back.

"I have time, actually. I took the day off today."

"…"

"You missed breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"…"

"I'll ask the nurses for some breakfast. Or do you prefer I get food from the cafeteria? A reuben? Pancakes?"

"…"

"I'll get you the lovely, lumpy oatmeal that they're serving up to the patients today then."

House finally opens his eyes. "Not hungry."

"Okay." Nolan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So would you like to tell me what happened?"

"_You_ tell me what_ they_ told you."

"James and Dr Cuddy?" Nolan knows House hates having people conspire behind his back to strategise to save him from himself, or to decide what to do for him. It reminds him far too much of the infarction. "I asked them what happened. And they told me about you being trapped after the secondary crane collapse."

House keeps his face expressionless. "That's that, then."

"That's all that happened?"

"Yes."

"That does not explain why you ended up in your bathroom, a shattered mirror around you, and two bottles of Vicodin in your hand."

"I'm an addict. I wanted drugs," House says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"No," Nolan says firmly. "Don't give me that crap."

"Isn't that what addicts do? Seek oblivion in the drugs? That's what I wanted. I'm just stating the facts."

"What happened to make you want the Vicodin?"

"…"

"Even when you found out Dr Cuddy was engaged, even when you moved out of the loft, you weren't tempted to go back to the vicodin… or were you?"

House keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he acquiesces. "No…" he says, "I wasn't."

"So what happened this time?"

House is silent for a long, long while. "It's of no use…" he finally says.

"What's of no use?"

"This. This… trying to get better, trying to do the right thing… It's of no use. Whatever I do… It's never enough."

"What made you come to that conclusion?"

"…"

"Does this have anything to do with the woman you were in the rubble with?"

"…"

"It does, then."

"…"

"I can tell from your adamant refusal to talk about it that it meant something to you, you know." Nolan waits, but doesn't receive the spectacular eye-roll he usually would have been graced with by now. He immediately places himself on high-alert.

"…"

"I can wait."

"…"

"…"

"She didn't want to cut off her leg."

"You… persuaded her to?"

"I shouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"Should have stuck to my guns… Shouldn't have changed my mind."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but from what I understand, it was necessary in order to extract her from the rubble, and thus, to save her life."

"I shouldn't have…" House murmurs. He lets out a shuddering sigh and turns his head away from Nolan. "I shouldn't have cut off the leg."

"You did everything you could. I know it struck you particularly because you were once in the same position. But it was the last resort – "

"_She's dead_!" House finally shouts, slamming his fist down on the hospital bed. It feels useless and ineffectual, so he swipes his arm across the table by his bedside, sending the jug of water, cups and random things crashing onto the floor. "I did everything right, and she died anyway! What's the point?"

Nolan jumps up from his seat as the noise and House's strained voice echoes around the room an eye on the monitors that show too clearly House's distress. Wilson and Cuddy did _not_ mention that the patient had died. Needless to say, it adds a whole new dimension to the issue.

"Greg..." Nolan approached House slowly, carefully, painfully aware of all the landmines that surround this issue, and how unreceptive House is towards the common platitudes one would offer to someone in his situation. "It wasn't – "

"I manipulated her. I _manipulated_ her into doing something she didn't want at all. And now.. now she's _dead_!"

"Greg… Calm down… It's not your fault." Nolan says calmly as he leans in, and at the same time, surreptitiously looks around for backup – the call button, sedatives, anything. Just making sure he was prepared. "You did what was necessary to save her. You did your – "

"House!" A sharp voice – Dr Cuddy, Nolan realizes – sounds from the doorway. Nolan whips around to find Cuddy and Wilson at the door.

"I could hear you from down the hallway!" Cuddy snaps as she strides in. "This is a hospital, and there are other patients who require rest!"

She doesn't mean for it to sound so harsh, but it just comes out that way. She's short on sleep, thanks to having been awoken in the middle of the night; she's facing the prospect of copious amounts of paperwork, thanks to the lockdown and the upcoming benefits; and it's basically been a stressful two weeks trying to fix things with House, run the hospital and cope with the fact that she no longer has a boyfriend who can help look after Rachel when she's busy at the hospital.

And when House's raised voice came floating down the hallway, she didn't hear the despair or the distress. All she heard was a raised voice disrupting the peace of her hospital. And confronting the source of the disruption head-on – sadly usually House – was an automatic reaction for her.

House is stunned momentarily, his mouth falling open slightly. But his face soon twists with an ugly sort of fury, and his eyes harden and turn cold as something inside of him snaps.

Wilson see this. "Cuddy…" he says in a warning tone. "We should leave Darryl to talk to House…"

Nolan steps in between them. "Dr Cuddy," he says firmly. "James. Let me talk to him – "

House struggles to sit upright, his entire body thrumming with tension and anger that he doesn't bother trying to conceal. He opens and closes his mouth several times, struggling with what exactly he wants to say – or not say – but he finally settles with a simple two words.

"I quit."

The whole room falls silent. Nolan turns around slowly to regard his recalcitrant patient while Cuddy and Wilson's jaws drop.

Cuddy regains her composure the quickest. "Don't be ridiculous," she dismisses, totally missing the undercurrent of defeat in House's strained statement. "You can't quit."

_Shit_, Wilson immediately. _Shit shit shit._ "House…" he says tentatively, stepping forward as he extends a hand to signal _stop_ to Cuddy. "Don't rush into – "

Nolan watches as the defeat that had permeated every inch of House flares into anger and resentment.

House's voice takes on a low and dangerous quality that even Wilson has hardly heard in his twenty years of friendship with House. "Yes I can."

Cuddy begins to realize that she has grossly underestimated the situation. She had initially thought House was pulling one of his stunts again, running out of the hospital. She was worried sick, but as the night progressed, it had faded to a disappointment and fatigue of his childish antics. Then came the knowledge that he'd nearly taken Vicodin. That made her think that he was really just an addict. But this House in front of her – furious, but with a potent torment written all over his face – is a House that she has not seen since he woke up to find his mobility and life as it was gone, along with his thigh muscle.

"I have had a standing offer from the WHO for the past twelve years. I turn down offers from other hospitals every single year - "

It is true. Wilson has seen them, and has even entertained over-zealous administrators trying to poach House by first poaching over his best friend. Cameron, who had sorted through House's mail, had once remarked to Wilson that she couldn't quite believe how House could turn down some of the offers.

" – and you tell me I can't quit?"

Cuddy staggers a step backwards, the force of House's seething fury a tidal wave that engulfs her. "House…" she murmurs. "I didn't mean it that way – "

"You know what?" House shoots back, eyes blazing with a cold fury. "Fuck you."

Cuddy's face turns ashen.

"Who the hell goes up to the guy they supposedly love and say _I wish I didn't love you_? Or I just need to know if we can work, like they're some sort of _disease_ that you have to learn to cope with, or just barely tolerate? Or like they're a person you would rather not be associated with? What kind of fucking love is that?""

Cuddy realizes with an unpleasant jolt that House is right. Her words had been extremely careless and thoughtless. It had sounded exactly like what House said it to be – that she was so much better than him, and that to commit to a relationship with him was something she didn't want in her life at all?

"House – "

"Fuck off. Just fuck off and don't claim you love me. That's just _shit_."

"House…" Wilson tries again as he stretches out a hand. He's seen House angry before, and has dealt with all the black moods and rage and depression that House endured in the months after the infarction, but this… this is a cold, seething fury that he has never seen before. "Just… calm down and we'll work things out…"

Nolan steps in between them all, and lays a hand on House's shoulder. "Greg. That's enough. Calm down, it's okay…" But House only pushes him aside, and unleashes his fury at Wilson.

"I'm not some sort of convenient friend you can put aside when you fall in love with someone. I'm_… I'm_ _not_," House repeats, as though trying to convince himself. "You made me give up the safety deposit to my apartment, and even bought the organ for me. I wasn't… wrong in thinking that staying in the loft would be _permanent_."

House pants, unraveling. The fury is slowly seeping away, and despair, pure despair is taking its place.

He's alone, with Cuddy and Wilson all moving on. _Alone._

Just him and his bum leg. Alone.

"When Sam left you, you were a sniveling wreck. So forgive me for warning you about getting into a relationship with her. I cut – " House stops, gasping slightly for breath. "I cut my head open to save Am – Amber. And I went crazy not only because of the vicodin, but also because _I couldn't get over it_."

Someone interjects. "House…" Almost pleadingly.

But House can't seem to stop.

"Whoopee. House is a social responsibility, we must save him from himself. His shoulder hurts? It definitely isn't because he has been using a cane for the past decade! Oh, his leg is hurting? Must be psychosomatic! Oh, don't tell him that the answer was Addison's Disease, it'll make him all cocky and fucked up because he was lucky. Well, you guys rely a lot on my luck for two people who seem to think I rely solely on luck."

"Greg…" Nolan says soothingly. He gestures urgently, mouthing _back off_, to Wilson and Cuddy to back off, but they take no notice, instead standing rooted to the spot. They are shell-shocked as they watch House literally disintegrate in front of them. He's always so in control and they have never seen his feelings whirlwind out of control before. Not even after the bus crash; not even after the deep brain stimulation, when he'd been struggling with aphasia and the prospect that his mind would not recover; not even when he was hallucinating.

"I just want to gnaw my leg off, or saw through it with a blunt fucking butter knife. Yeah, fuck nerve damage, right? It totally doesn't hurt. House is somewhat happy without vicodin? That's just wrong. Make him do a urine test. He's definitely… definitely using again. Why am I not surprised? I'm sure he's just - just seeking drugs; he doesn't care about staying clean, he just wants the high. He's a… he's a hopeless addict."

"A hopeless addict who's alone. The consolation prize. Always the consolation prize." House seems to curl in on himself, panting from the exertion of his rant. "Oh god," he seems to deflate, and an odd whine gurgles in his throat. "Oh god. I emotionally manipulated her into cutting off the leg. I told her she would end up alone like me."

Cuddy can taste bile in his throat, a growing sense of horror crawling up from her stomach.

"Now she's dead. She's dead, and her husband forgives me. He _forgives_ me. Do you know what that means?" House stares up at the ceiling, not able to look at them anymore. He's not sure he can even look at himself in the mirror and tell himself he's a good doctor anymore. "It means that I did the wrong thing. I emotionally manipulated her. I lost my objectivity, because all I could think of was how you two were moving on and I was alone and it's all because of the fucking leg. And now, she's dead."

Cuddy somehow finds it in herself to step forward. "House…" her voice cracks and trembles and shivers. "We couldn't have foreseen the outcome of the field amputation… A fat embolism is -"

"You _lied_," House moans. "You both lied to me. You told me she was alive."

"You had your own injuries to contend – "

"YOU _LIED_!" House all but screamed. "She's _dead_!"

All he could feel was this sense of despair and loss. He was always objective. Always the objective doctor. And now, because he'd allowed himself to get close to a patient, allowed himself to want the best for her, allowed his own personal life to influence his decision… _He killed her. _

Cuddy takes a step back at the sheer force of House's lashing out, her hand on her mouth. Nolan brushes past her – she hadn't even realised he had left the room – and behind him is Chase. They glance at the monitors and the numbers are not good for someone recovering from life-threatening injuries. Still-healing lungs are heaving from the exertion of shouting. His heart-rate is trending on tachycardia. He's at risk of injuring himself further.

Wilson and Cuddy have never seen this, but House is in a full-out panic attack. Nolan's seen it before, back in Mayfield. Several times, in fact. Not only when House was detoxing, but also during their therapy sessions, when they'd talked about everything. Ice-baths. John House. Infarction. Shooting. Bus crash. Amber. Kutner. Hallucinations. The prospect of losing his mind.

House spots the sedative in Chase's shaking hands, and he strikes out blindly, trying to escape. He turns to Nolan. "Get me out," House whispers as he struggles against the effects of the sedative. "Get me out of here… I quit."

Nolan pauses, then says simply, "Okay, I will."

His eyes droop, but he blinks rapidly, hard, trying to stay awake, his limbs slowly slackening, his grips on Chase's and Nolan's wrists slowly loosening. And as he finally falls over the edge into unconsciousness where nothing hurts, the tears start to flow.

* * *

><p>AN: _Okay. Okay okay I am so so so sorry. Real life is really just strangling me right now. A nice, long chapter here, I struggled very much with it. Now that the shit has really hit the fan and we've hit rock-bottom, the only way is up. But it's not going to be easy. When is it ever easy with these characters? I hope it's clear that they are all at fault in some way or another for this whole situation.  
><em>


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